


Take What We're Given

by Solitary_Endeavor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Demisexual Sherlock, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sherlock Loves John, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Endeavor/pseuds/Solitary_Endeavor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnussen doesn't flick John's face. He doesn't touch either of them. He finds it much more amusing to tell John to flick Sherlock's face. Because then it's John hurting Sherlock to keep Mary safe, and Sherlock letting him. That's real leverage.</p>
<p>The commands start with face flicking. They get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take What We're Given

   
  
Written for a prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=130158342#t130158342) on the kink meme, for personal enjoyment.  No infringement intended, no profits made, etc.

   
To avoid any confusion, just know I wrote this around the premise that Sherlock has been in love with John for years, but did not fully realize/deduce it until giving his Best Man speech during the wedding reception in TSoT.

   
Please also be aware that this story features **coercive sex and the issue of dubious consent** , compounded by a character’s **internalized self-hatred/struggle with his own ill-defined (a)sexuality**.  While at one point John references his own actions as “rape,” I didn’t tag the story as such because I feel that unfairly colors the situation I tried to present here, which isn't intended to eroticise the forceful taking away of Sherlock's sexual autonomy, but the deep and as of yet poorly understood love between them which allows them to face the worst and weather it, together.

   
Many thanks to [Mount_Seleya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya) for beta reading, and to [arianedevere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/) for her invaluable transcription work on the episodes!

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘You know about Mind Palaces, don’t you, Sherlock?’ Magnussen asks, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

Sherlock swallows thickly and his lips part reflexively, but for once there are no words. No words will fix this. Good lord, “enormous mistake” was an understatement. He should have anticipated something like this; why hadn’t he anticipated something like this?

 

‘How to store information so you never forget it,’ Magnussen continues, ‘by picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes...’ He does so, slowly lowering his head. ‘...And down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults...my memories...’

 

Magnussen’s head rotates side to side, as if passing through such a vault, surveying a plethora of nasty little keepsakes along the way, collected for his personal amusement. Sherlock tastes a hint of bile at the back of his throat.

 

‘I’ll look at the files on Mrs. Watson.’

 

Magnussen lifts his hands, reaches out to touch upon his mental image of Mary’s files. The man mimes flipping through file folders.

 

Beside him, John clears his throat against a stifled laugh. Likely thinking of the much more dramatic way Sherlock tends to sort through his own information banks (John is banned from the room whenever Sherlock needs to access his Mind Palace for a reason). Sherlock doubts John would find the situation so amusing, were he to understand the full extent of the miscalculation Sherlock has made in bringing them here.

 

Stupid, _stupid_ , how could he have been so— There’s nothing for it. _‘Hindsight is 20/20, brother, dear,’_ he can practically hear in his head, but that hardly helps him _now_. There is no physical evidence to destroy, there never was, and Sherlock has foolishly played right into Magnussen’s hands.

 

‘Mmm. Ah. This is one of my favourites. Oh, it’s so exciting.’ Magnussen’s hands move as if turning pages. ‘All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh!’ Magnussen points, as if to a passage of text in his file. ‘She’s gone a bit...freelance now. Bad girl.’

 

Another page turned, and the man snickers to himself. ‘Oh!’ Another. Magnussen grins.

 

‘Ah, she is so wicked.’ He is all too clearly enjoying himself, enjoying the idea of gently teasing the entrails from someone like John.

 

John, who never would have gotten himself into this mess, if not for Sherlock. He never should have brought John, only... He never should have _come back_ , if this was to be the shape of things, now—open season on John Watson in the minds of every two-bit, low-life thug with half a fistful of criminal ambition. _(Told all my clients. Last one to Sherlock is a sissy.)_ Because to Get Sherlock, all one had to do was Get John Watson, and the proof of it had been there in Magnussen’s sitting room, projected larger than life and looped on repeat. _(But look how you care about John Watson.)_

 

Magnussen’s hands lift, replacing the file in its mental drawer. ‘I can really see why you like her.’ He pushes closed his imaginary drawer, lifts his palms as if in supplication as he opens his eyes again to peer intently at Sherlock. ‘You see?’

 

John clears his throat again, but this time there is no trace of amusement, only the indication that John is losing his patience. Oh, John. _(You see, but you do not observe.)_

 

‘So there are no documents,’ John concludes, terribly unimpressed by the whole production. ‘You don’t actually have anything here.’

 

‘Oh, sometimes I send out for something...if I really need it...’ Magnussen glances at his watch, thoughtfully.

 

Averting his gaze, Sherlock swallows against the swell of curiously genuine despair beneath his ribs. An impulsive, poorly-considered decision, to have Billy alter the concentration of his sedative compound, and now it would cost them.

 

‘...But mostly I just remember it all.’

 

John shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

 

‘You should have that on a t-shirt,’ Magnussen suggests.

 

‘You just remember it all,’ John repeats, as if stating the obvious will somehow impart greater clarity.

 

Sherlock feels Magnussen’s gaze settle on him with sly, tangible weight.

 

‘It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning.’

 

Is that what he, himself, has been trying to do all this time, Sherlock wonders? As if by knowing John Watson, he could own some small, privileged part of him? But even as he thinks this, Sherlock knows better, knows himself. Knows he wouldn’t be fully satisfied until he owned the whole of John (until John owned the whole of him, in return, except John demonstrably did _not_ want that).

 

Perhaps it only worked when one used that knowledge for ill-gain; perhaps Sherlock could have dedicated his life to the study of John, and never owned any more of the man than he did now. Yet Mary certainly knew all about the lengths to which Sherlock would go to ensure John’s happiness, didn’t she? And in so knowing, owned Sherlock as much as Moriarty had, in those last moments atop St Bart’s. ( _You don’t tell him. Sherlock. You_ don’t tell John _.)_

John’s protests, John’s incredulity wash over Sherlock, but run off the surface, unabsorbed.

 

( _Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends._ )

 

Magnussen stands, the movement pulling Sherlock from his frantic calculations, his increasingly desperate mental scrabbling on how he can possibly fix this for John. It never should have come this far, fix it, **_fix it_**.

 

‘Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me.’ Magnussen tuts with disapproval, peers at his watch once more. ‘Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly.’

 

Magnussen turns to step from his “vault,” then pauses, his eyes scanning Sherlock’s face intently.

 

And Sherlock is overwhelmed, made too fragile by this unexpected blow, wrong, wrong, how can he have been this _wrong_ , he can’t, he can’t _think_ ( _‘Solve this!’_ John’s voice snaps impatiently), and surely he has become utterly transparent, because the corner of Magnussen’s mouth twitches into a smirk.

                                                                              

‘Or, not so shortly?’

 

The worst bit of it, Sherlock supposes, is that pure hubris has brought him here. He’d thought Magnussen might take a little more convincing, might draw things out before agreeing to Sherlock’s terms, before revealing his precious vaults. Had thought he might even arrange time enough to have a glimpse for himself, whilst he was at it. _(It’s all about knowledge. Everything is.)_

 

But Magnussen isn’t like Moriarty, is he? For Magnussen, it isn’t about the game, isn’t about the challenge, or even winning. For Magnussen, it is about stacking the odds against every possible move in advance, and owning the board and his opponent completely. It’s about ensuring that any game is lost, well before it’s begun. Months of playing to Moriarty’s preference for the game itself had made Sherlock complacent, and now look where they all are.

 

Adjusting his cuffs, Magnussen heads in the direction of the lounge. ‘Can’t wait to see you arrested,’ he tosses over his shoulder.

 

Sherlock ignores the barb, rooted to the spot by indecision. If everything he had fought to accomplish during the two hellish years he was gone, all the running and hiding and the sleepless nights spent in temporary bolt holes where the ~~solitude~~ cold penetrated so sharply it made his bones ache, had been for _nothing.._.

 

The heat of John at his side is balm to the ugly bruise of futility located somewhere deep and secret behind Sherlock’s sternum, but a comfort Sherlock cannot allow himself to accept.

 

‘Sherlock, do we have a plan?’ John demands, his voice tight.

 

Sherlock doesn’t respond, his gaze remaining fixed on the floor. Only one plan, maybe, but it excluded John by necessity, and Sherlock took a moment to be thankful John had never extracted a definitive promise from him, upon his return, against continually keeping John in the dark about things he was better off not knowing. _(It’s him I worry about—that wife! John Watson is definitely in danger...)_ One less promise to break, in the end, and it hardly mattered, as long as Sherlock kept the most important one.

 

‘Sherlock.’

 

_It’s you, John Watson_ , he doesn’t say. _It’s always you. You keep me right, and I—and I—_

 

John turns and walks away.

 

Sherlock screws his eyes shut. Pathetic. He is utterly, ludicrously pathetic.

 

By the time Sherlock collects himself enough to force his feet in the direction of the lounge, Magnussen stands beside the minimalist glass end table and its decanter, another scotch in hand (Chivas Regal from the smell of it, most likely Royal Salute, Sherlock’s mind supplies, uselessly), and John is badgering Magnussen (equally useless).

 

‘You just _know_ things. How does that work?’

 

Sherlock comes to a halt one step beyond the threshold. Magnussen cuts his eyes in Sherlock’s direction with a glimmer of cold, amused knowing, before returning his attention to John.

 

‘I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it.’

 

John stares back, clearly thrown.

 

‘But what I love even more is Sherlock’s arrogant little detective face—watching him swan in here with big brother’s computer, thinking he will be the hero to single-handedly bring the cruel Mr. Magnussen to justice.’

 

Sherlock flinches at the reminder of Mycroft’s words. _(A necessary evil--not a dragon for you to slay.)_

‘Ah, that is the face.’ Magnussen chuckles. ‘Bring it over here a minute.’

 

Sherlock steps across the room, reluctantly. Mycroft and the others will be drugged another twenty, maybe thirty minutes longer than ideal, but Sherlock can easily stall for that much time. The important thing is to remain level-headed, unaffected, and give John no cause at any time to decide drawing his gun is a preferable alternative to letting Magnussen play his twisted power games.

 

A grin tugs at Magnussen’s lips, as if in reaction to a private joke. His eyes bore into Sherlock, though his words are directed at John.

 

‘Now this...this is the fun part.’ He gestures at Sherlock with his glass. ‘Sherlock Holmes will do anything for John Watson. John Watson will do anything for Mary Watson. So when I tell Sherlock to lean forward a bit...go on, stick your face out. Please?’

 

Arms held behind his back, his right hand clenched around the opposite wrist, Sherlock does so. He looks straight ahead, his gaze unfocused as he waits for Magnussen to make his heavy-handed point.

 

‘And when I tell you, John, to flick it...’

 

John huffs a humourless laugh. Sherlock can feel John’s questioning stare and forces himself to nod, once.

 

‘Flick his face. Come on. For Mary,’ Magnussen insists. ‘Just pull back your finger.’ He demonstrates, lifting his hand with the palm toward himself, tucks the tip of his middle finger beneath his thumb.

 

John shakes his head, snorts, shakes his head again, but eventually brings his hand to Sherlock’s face, flicks his finger sharply against Sherlock’s cheek. They’ve dealt much worse to one another—hell, John’s overreaction to Sherlock’s resurrection comes quickly to mind—but that was always between the two of them, their business alone. The addition of Magnussen, with an expression of smug anticipation and his scotch in hand, _spectating_ , adds an element of voyeurism which makes Sherlock uneasy.

 

‘Again.’

 

John flicks him again; Sherlock struggles to remain absolutely still.

 

‘I just love doing this. I could do it all day.’ Magnussen smiles at the two of them indulgently. ‘It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed. You do not want Mary to come to any harm, naturally, so you will flick Sherlock when I tell you to. Sherlock does not want _you_ to come to any harm, so he will let you.’ Gesturing pointedly to John’s raised hand, Magnussen waits for him to flick Sherlock before continuing.

 

‘As for Mary, I know where to find people who hate her.’ Another loaded pause, until John flicks him—‘Again.’—and again. ‘I know where they live; I know their phone numbers.’ Flick, flick. ‘All in my Mind Palace— _all_ of it.’

 

Sherlock’s eyes burn into Magnussen.

 

‘I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down—and I will...’

 

Sherlock clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache.

 

‘...Unless you flick Sherlock’s face.’ Flick. ‘This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries...’ At Magnussen’s look, John scowls, flicks Sherlock once more. ‘...just because I _know_.’

 

Magnussen sips his scotch.

 

‘Do you understand now, John? I hardly need proof when knowledge of a thing is sufficient to have anyone I wish squirming in the palm of my hand, at the mercy of a whim.’

 

‘Mercy, right,’ John responds, nodding, but his gaze is on the floor as if collecting himself for a violent impulse; Sherlock has had opportunity to observe the signs, himself, often enough over the years. ‘No, yeah, I get it, no need for a t-shirt.’

 

‘Are you quite sure?’ Magnussen inquires, shifting his weight to loom over John. ‘Because I do worry my example might be too abstract. After all, I hardly make my way around Europe _flicking_ countries, even if I can have their best friends do it for me! Maybe a more practical demonstration is needed to really...’ Magnussen’s gaze crawls deliberately over Sherlock. ‘...Drive the point home?’

 

Dread settles in Sherlock’s gut like a stone. If Magnussen decides to threaten (or order John to threaten) life or limb, John is much more likely to balk and do something idiotic.

 

John shuffles his feet, darts a glance in Sherlock’s direction which Sherlock studiously ignores. John scratches an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail, shifts his weight again. ‘Really, really not necessary. I get it, you’re a massive prick who gets off on making people let you do degrading, humiliating things to them.’

 

‘Ah, that is good, John! Yes, and speaking of _pricks_.’ Magnussen enunciates the word with relish, clearly amused. ‘I wonder if you would remove yours from your trousers?’

 

‘...What the _hell_ are you on about?’ John wants to know, with deadly calm. His every muscle is preternaturally still.

 

‘You seemed so upset when I took a piss on the floor of Sherlock’s grotty apartment,’ Magnussen says, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 

Sherlock can see the trajectory of this exchange, clear as day, and closes his eyes.

 

‘That is something else I do, just a little thing—I look for “tells,” and I use them to my advantage. So Sherlock is going to get on his knees,’ Magnussen explains, ‘and you are going to piss on him.’

 

‘Like hell I am!’

 

‘Come now, John, think of Mary! What is a little uric acid between good friends?’ Magnussen chuckles as he swirls the liquid in his glass.

 

‘Sherlock—’

 

Slowly, with as much dignity as he can manage, Sherlock lowers himself to his knees on the stone tiling. ‘I’m sorry. Just...do it.’

 

‘You can’t be serious,’ John protests, glancing uneasily from Sherlock to Magnussen, then back again.

 

Sherlock responds by sitting back on his heels, bracing his hands on his thighs.

 

‘Ah, see? Sherlock does not mind. Only, if you would take off your coat, and...’ Magnussen gestures vaguely to indicate the place where Sherlock kneels. ‘I’d prefer to spare the marble. It’s imported, you understand.’

 

Sherlock inhales heavily through his nose. Magnussen means to humiliate him for his presumption, that much is evident. He has undergone much worse, Sherlock reminds himself. It’s just a dry cleaning bill.

 

As he works his gloves off a finger at a time, Sherlock sees John’s fists clench and unclench in his peripheral vision. John huffs, starts and fails to finish any number of arguments as to why this is unnecessary, wrong, _sick_ , and in this time Sherlock manages to stuff his gloves into one pocket, to unwind his scarf and tuck it into the other. He removes his coat to reposition himself so he is kneeling in the centre of it, lining turned down against the cold bite of marble.

 

Once again, Sherlock assumes the position, his spine held as straight as possible, shoulders squared. He keeps his face blank of all expression as he stares into the middle distance, internally cursing everything—Magnussen, for his proclivities; Mycroft, for purposely providing him such a tempting target; Mary, briefly, for ultimately providing the perfect leverage for Magnussen, or maybe for not finishing the vile man off when she’d had the chance; but himself, most of all, for having failed to see the obvious, time after time after _time_ , since his return to London. 

 

With a final, explosive exhalation through his teeth, John moves in front of Sherlock. Resolved and economical in his movements, he has clearly decided to face head-on an unpleasant task which cannot be avoided, anxious to get it over and done with, ever the soldier.

 

‘I’m starting to see why Sherlock speaks so lowly of you,’ John mutters, a transparent attempt to dissociate himself with insults, as his hands go to his belt. Tongue of leather through metal frame, tugged free of tine, pulled free of frame. Then the fly—button through hole, zip undone with a scrape of metal teeth that seems disconcertingly loud. John’s hands hesitate for a moment, then, with a grimace, he reaches inside and pulls himself out through the placket of his pants.

 

It takes a couple false starts (John fighting his natural inclination against urination in the middle of someone’s lounge, with a rapt audience, on another person, on _Sherlock_ ; John deciding where to aim for the best chance of avoiding both Sherlock’s face and commentary from Magnussen), but John perseveres.

 

The splash of warm urine against the centre of his chest, just below the open V of his dress shirt, shocks an involuntary gasp from Sherlock. John’s urine wicks quickly down Sherlock’s silk shirt to the wool of his trousers, the startling warmth and wetness of it, as it touches Sherlock’s stomach, the lee of his crotch, the tops of his thighs. Sherlock’s heart rate momentarily skitters, inexplicably, and he fights to keep his breathing deep and even.

 

Magnussen sniggers into his glass.

 

John urinates on him for approximately 5.5 seconds (approximate, because the initial surprise of it throws off Sherlock’s data-collecting abilities) before the stream abruptly peters off. (Had John emptied his bladder, or done a mental count of his own, having determined an optimal duration between what would satisfy Magnussen, and what was acceptable when unwillingly performing an act of degradation on one’s best friend?) John turns aside to shake his penis free of any remaining drops of urine (doesn’t want to risk splash-back in Sherlock’s face, must not have noticed the splatter pattern which had reached the exposed skin of Sherlock’s upper chest, the droplet which caught against Sherlock’s suprasternal notch, seeming to sear his skin with heat for a fraction of a second before it cooled to match Sherlock’s external body temperature), then tucks himself back into his trousers with swift, business-like movements. Does up his zip. John’s fingers twitch for his belt when Magnussen’s words stop him.

 

‘Ah, John, I would not, just yet...’

 

John freezes, his left hand absolutely steady as it hangs suspended before his fly.

 

‘What’s the matter?’ John grunts. ‘Was there something wrong with the way I _pissed_ on him?’

 

‘No, no,’ Magnussen assures him, ‘it was...quite entertaining.’

 

John continues to glare at Magnussen without quite making eye contact. Sherlock shifts minutely on his knees, the urine cooling quickly and becoming more uncomfortable by the second. The sodden fabric of his clothing clings to his torso, his lap, and the sensation makes Sherlock’s skin crawl.

 

‘Only, now you are going to use your prick to slap Sherlock. In the face.’

 

John reels back, as if struck himself, his expression caught between outrage and disbelief. Magnussen makes a little “go on” gesture.

 

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. Should have gone with his first instinct, should have had Wiggins keep the dosages less concentrated and quicker-acting. They could have already been gone from here, Magnussen already dead—because if there was one point on which Sherlock was absolutely resolved, it was that. Magnussen could not be allowed to leave Appledore alive, and Sherlock would be the one to do it, but it necessitated witnesses so there could be no doubt, no chance whatsoever that John would get caught up in another one of Sherlock’s messes. That was the one unacceptable outcome of this altercation, and one which Sherlock would guard against at all costs. Everything else—Sherlock’s pride, his dignity, his own personal liberty--was collateral damage.

 

‘I’ll tell you right now, you are out of your _goddamn_ _mind_ if you think—’

 

‘John,’ Sherlock snaps, warningly.

 

‘Sherlock!’ John snaps back, his temper good and roused. ‘I’m not going to _cock-slap you across the face_ , and you’re as barmy as this sick bastard here if you think it’s on to let one man cock-slap you just because another man with a _Mind Palace_ full of—’

 

‘So it’s better that assassins with a grudge come after your wife?’ Sherlock snarls. Why is John making such a big deal out of this, why won’t he let Sherlock do this for him, for the safety of his unborn child?

 

‘My sharp-shooter, ex-assassin wife? I think she’ll probably have a fighting chance, yeah, especially if we give her a bit of a heads up!’

 

‘Your _heavily_ _pregnant_ ex-assassin wife? I’ve told you before, it’s all transport to me, what do I care if you hit me in the face with your penis, it’s not like you’re doing it for a lark, or because I left biohazardous material in the refrigerator past expiry-date or destroyed your favourite mug accidentally-on-purpose again!’

 

‘Oh ho,’ Magnussen chuckles, ‘I had heard things, but confirmation is always satisfying. No wonder your little place at Baker Street is so disgusting.’

 

Sherlock grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his own thighs as he attempts to regain control of himself. There is no need to make any more of a spectacle of themselves than they have done. Sherlock is usually better than this at ignoring John’s side of their would-be arguments and ensuring he gets his own way, regardless. If only John didn’t insist on being so pointlessly _noble_!

 

‘Just do it, John,’ he growls. Then, because one didn’t drag John Watson around to crime scenes and into (ostensibly) abandoned buildings and through squalid opium dens at all hours of the night for eighteen months without deducing a thing or two _(Previous commander? “Previous” suggests that I currently have a commander.)_ , Sherlock drops his voice a register and glares up at John intently.

 

‘Take your penis out of your pants and hit me across the face.’ Sherlock lifts his head, angling it slightly to offer John an optimum target. ‘I want you to do it. For Mary,’ he adds, pointedly, his eyes fixed on John’s.

 

John’s pulse visibly throbs against the thin skin of his throat as he stares back. He swallows with obvious effort, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.

 

‘And you’ve an excellent track record of wanting things that are any good for you, is that it?’ John needles him weakly, still attempting to stall, to deflect. _(The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it.)_

 

Of course John didn’t know any better, _of course_ he didn’t know, because Sherlock had done everything in his power since his rather unfortunately timed self-deduction in the midst of his Best Man speech to ensure John would _never_ know. Still, John’s mouth unconsciously echoing the words Sherlock has been forced to ask himself, nearly every single day of these past few months, with John back at Baker Street, painstakingly making his decision to forgive Mary... It cuts more keenly than Sherlock would have anticipated.

 

‘My apologies. You are right, of course, John.’

 

Both their gazes flick to Magnussen with suspicion.

 

‘It was a poor idea. So crass and uncreative, unbefitting of the esteem in which you two so obviously hold one another. But, I believe I have a more appropriate suggestion?’ Magnussen tastes his Chivas, his eyebrows lifted inquisitively.

 

Sherlock can nearly taste the swelling tide of John’s rage, the myriad insults and imprecations that are dammed back with difficulty, but it seems John has finally learned no good comes of antagonising Magnussen directly. Thank god.

 

‘What’s that?’ John is admirably self-collected, for all the disgust and hatred for Magnussen that Sherlock can see seething beneath the surface. John has always had a wonderfully expressive face, and Sherlock finds himself unable to tear his eyes away.

 

‘If there is one thing for which Sherlock Holmes is most well-known, aside from his “deductive powers,” it is for running his mouth.’ Magnussen clucks his tongue. ‘Such unpleasant things he sometimes says, in his pursuit of knowledge, above all else!’ Smirking down into his glass, Magnussen shrugs philosophically. ‘Though, it is an...exceptional mouth, if one is interested in that kind of thing. I think I can see why so many of you little, stupid people let him run rough-shod over you.’

 

Sherlock’s breath dies in his chest as he wrestles with a sick certainty of what will come next.

 

‘What are you suggesting?’ John demands, voice utterly without inflection, and, oh, there is that bit of Captain Watson which Sherlock hasn’t heard since the night he outed Mary.

 

‘I am done suggesting, because I begin to tire of all this bickering. Instead, I am _telling_ you, John, to stick your prick in Sherlock’s mouth. I am _telling_ you that I own you because there are individuals a phone call away who would enjoy nothing more than a messy, messy end for your naughty Mrs. Watson. And I am _telling_ you that if you do not fuck Sherlock’s mouth, I will do it for you.’

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, not wanting to see the revulsion on John’s face, nor the smug superiority on Magnussen’s. Wishes he could not be seen, himself. _‘No one to blame but yourself, thinking yourself so clever,’_ he hears in Mycroft’s most patronizing tones. _‘But you’re really just an idiot after all, aren’t you?’_

 

‘Sherlock,’ Magnussen drawls, the veneer of politeness still solidly in place, but there is steel beneath the words. ‘If you would lean forward and open your mouth, please?’

 

Merely transport, Sherlock reminds himself. Meaningless manipulation of the transport. John is certainly not doing it for _enjoyment_. They will forget what has happened here today, they will never speak of it, and it too will pass, water under the bridge, like all the other things they have ever refused to say to one another. He opens his mouth.

 

‘Sherlock—’ John attempts, sounding furious and helpless all at once, but Sherlock doesn’t bother dragging the tired argument out any longer. Opens his mouth wider.

 

‘Any time now, John,’ Magnussen says.

 

‘Sherlock,’ John tries again, urgently, and Sherlock’s fingers tighten around his own knees as frustration threatens to undo his composure.

 

Calm. He must remain calm, for the sake of John’s overdeveloped conscience. Regardless of how _idiotic_ John is being.

 

Think. John is a good man, a doctor _(Do no harm)_ , a soldier _(In adversity, faithful)_ with strong moral principle. In John’s rather simplified mind, mutual sexual gratification is an act of physical affection. Therefore, it stands to reason that any form of sexual coercion is an unforgivable act of physical aggression and, as such, John needs assurance that this thing will not alter the fundamentals of their friendship. Tedious, but understandable. Sherlock can manage this.

 

And if concentrating on allaying John’s qualms allows Sherlock to sublimate his own, well, that is his business alone.

 

‘John,’ he admonishes softly, in something as close to his normal, morally blithe tones as he is capable. ‘It is hardly going to be the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth.’

 

John huffs an aborted laugh, amusement and solemnity at war on his face _(We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene!)_ , and the sound ignites a small germ of warmth in Sherlock’s chest, despite everything.

 

Strangely, Sherlock finds it is easier after all to hold John’s gaze with implicit trust as he leans forward once more, softens his mouth and lets it hang open, just a bit. Because Sherlock is nothing if not a masochist (and maybe a touch the sadist, too) when it comes to John Watson, and this is how he thinks he would have done it, had circumstances otherwise ever brought them to...something like this. Because sometimes, stumbling home after a case, adrenaline and the thrill of the chase, the thrill of _winning_ burning through Sherlock’s veins like fire, the two of them equally high on the euphoria of it, it had seemed not only possible, but inevitable.

 

But that was Before, and Sherlock had smashed that all to pieces when he stepped off the roof of Bart’s. Instead, he is left with hypotheticals and half-formed would-haves: would have relaxed his jaw barely enough to provide an unmistakable invitation; would have let (made) John push himself through diffidently parted lips, cock forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider to accommodate.

 

This is reality, however, and the sole reason John is even considering putting his (flaccid) penis in Sherlock’s mouth is because a power-hungry blackmailer is threatening the lives of John’s wife and child. And, god help him, Sherlock will take what he can get.

 

John clears his throat. ‘Right, then,’ he says, awkward and not without misgivings, but nods tersely (avoids eye contact) before wasting no more time in undoing his zip, again, and reaching inside.

 

_(‘Get it over with, already!’ John had growled at him, shirtless and hunched miserably over the washbasin, the two of them crammed into the loo because the lighting was better than in the kitchen, and Sherlock had dithered over where best to get a grip on the medical tape without peeling the skin from John’s back in the process. ‘You do realise the antici— )_

 

Sherlock’s mind slams back into the present as the head of John’s prick touches his lower lip—warm, skin slightly humid, smells faintly of musk and _John_ —and Sherlock nearly bites his own tongue in the struggle against his instinctive reaction to taste, which he is aware is a bit Not Good. John’s hand, wrapped around himself just below the head (foreskin not retracted, lack of arousal obvious), jerks his penis back, clearly alarmed.

 

‘Sorry,’ Sherlock mutters weakly, ‘I’m sorry.’ No retreating to his own Mind Palace, then; he can’t trust himself not to be startled by novel stimuli and to avoid seriously injuring John. ‘I wasn’t expecting—sorry.’

 

‘Jesus,’ John pants. ‘A bloody menace, you are,’ and then he is frowning with determination, ah, no more dithering for either of them. John catches Sherlock under the jaw with his right hand, wedges his thumb between Sherlock’s back molars and oh, that’s clever, is that clever? Better that Sherlock bites John’s thumb, if he’s startled again, than risk biting anything less...resilient. John exerts a little more pressure with his thumb, forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider, and pushes the first few centimetres of his soft prick inside.

 

Sherlock’s fingers spasm where he clutches his own knees, but he otherwise remains perfectly still. Keeps his tongue flattened as much as possible, tucked behind his bottom incisors, politely out of the way. Rethinks this, based on anecdotal evidence, and as John grimaces (no longer entirely flaccid; well, pure physiology will surely be enough to get John through this, if he simply closes his eyes and thinks of England, or Mary, shouldn’t take much, John’s become accustomed to regular intercourse since meeting Mary, then gone cold turkey after discovering her more unsavoury hobbies), Sherlock repositions his tongue to over the sharp edge of his lower teeth.

 

John inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward another several centimetres, and Sherlock definitely would have bitten him that time, probably, if not for John’s thumb. As it is, Sherlock discovers a critical flaw with this pose: namely, the inability to swallow his own saliva.

 

John compensates by withdrawing completely from Sherlock’s mouth, then, seemingly frustrated with himself (for being as jumpy as Sherlock? for dragging it out?) he plunges back inside, carefully but firmly. His foreskin has begun to retract, and the texture of the slick glans on Sherlock’s tongue is...interesting. John tastes the way he smells, warm and musky.

 

It is bearable. It’s fine, it’s all fine, and when John... _finishes_ , or Magnussen grows bored, or Mycroft finally ( _finally_ ) gets his fat arse here and Sherlock had his witnesses, Magnussen will no longer have leverage over anyone ever again, and he and John will leave this place and not ever speak of it. Assuming Sherlock will be allowed, or even able, to talk to John again, from wherever Mycroft has him detained, after he eliminates Magnussen. “Justifiable homicide,” Sherlock’s mind offers, but Sherlock knows there will be no justification for him, despite the fact he will be doing the whole of England a favour, and several other countries beside.

 

John is still struggling with his conscience, evidently. There is a deep furrow creasing the skin of his forehead (consternation, morally-motivated aversion). He pushes approximately half way into Sherlock’s mouth and then holds himself there, uneasily, before edging in a bit more.

 

Magnussen sighs with something that sounds to Sherlock like dissatisfaction, or impatience, and Sherlock belatedly supposes he is being ‘less than helpful,’ as John likes to put it. He should help speed things along, shouldn’t he? How should he...?

 

Magnussen shifts his weight, as if in preparation to step nearer ( _if you do no fuck Sherlock’s mouth, I will do it for you_ ).

 

With a frisson of panic, Sherlock resolves to apply whatever theoretical knowledge of fellatio he can call to mind, and as John moves forward another reluctant inch, Sherlock leans in suddenly to meet him. Overcomes his gag reflex to take John’s prick as deeply as the position of John’s fist around himself will allow. He attempts to keep his lips tucked safely over his teeth, pressing his tongue firmly to the underside where he can feel the throb of John’s pulse in the bulbourethral artery. Tries for as much suction as he can manage, but John’s thumb in place makes it difficult. Saliva drools steadily from the corners of Sherlock’s mouth; disgusting, but hardly worse than the bodily fluids with which he is already saturated.

 

Above Sherlock’s bent head, John’s breath punches from his lungs. The sound of it is identical to past instances when cornered criminals have made the unwise choice to fight them, rather than flee, and John has received a blow to the solar plexus for his troubles. Sherlock’s heart rate kicks up in some sort of Pavlovian response, and he grips his own thighs viciously to avoid reaching for John. But just as good (better, infinitely better), John lashes out with his left hand (no longer needed to support or guide himself into Sherlock’s mouth, not when his prick is hard as iron against Sherlock’s soft pallet) and fists his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

 

Whether intended as a gesture to stay himself or to stay Sherlock, Sherlock doesn’t _care_ , the follicles are so ridiculously sensitive and no one knows this, there is no possible way John can know, but he certainly knows _now_ , as Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed and the guttural, entirely involuntary whinge works its way up his throat, surprising even himself. He isn’t...he doesn’t respond to sexual stimulation, not really, but it feels as if a live current runs from the clench of John’s hand to Sherlock’s coccyx.

 

It’s _terrifying_.

 

John’s cock noticeably enlarges, throbs in his mouth, the spurt of pre-seminal fluid bitter on the back of Sherlock’s tongue, and Sherlock flushes with humiliation. Chokes back the reflexive whimper, which sounds distressed, even to his own ears.

 

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Magnussen exclaims softly. ‘That is very interesting information, indeed.’

 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, appalled at having forgotten himself (stupid, _stupid_ ), and whatever John sees on his face has the other man opening his hand and pulling himself from Sherlock’s mouth so quickly, Sherlock nearly gags.

 

Shaken, coughing, Sherlock immediately lowers his gaze to the floor. Swallows thickly once, twice, works his jaw at the corners where stiffness has begun to set in and wipes his chin with the back of a hand. The taste of John lingers on his tongue, not particularly pleasant, but not as terrible as it might be.

 

‘You needn’t have stopped on my account,’ Magnussen insists. ‘Though I suppose the two of you are eager to see this exercise to its conclusion.’

 

Magnussen holds up a finger in the universal ‘wait a moment’ gesture and crosses the room to a door just off the hallway which leads deeper into the house. He enters, and there is the click of the light, a metallic clack (metal decoupling—magnet—medicine cabinet—loo, then). The medicine cabinet is closed, the light extinguished. Magnussen reappears to toss something (metallic surface, flatish) to the floor at Sherlock’s knees before continuing across the room to recline leisurely against the white leather “caterpillar style” sofa.

 

Sherlock glances briefly at the item, against his better judgment, only to find his eyes locked there, his mind stalled in disbelief. Single-use-sized foil packet of personal lubricant, dear _Christ_.

 

‘I will spare you the suspense. John, you are going to sodomise Sherlock. You are going to stick your prick up his ass and keep doing it until Sherlock has his “little death,” or I tell you to stop. I am curious, you see, because while my information indicates Sherlock’s taste in pornography falls within perfectly normal limits for a homosexual male, he has never had a sexual partner, and, well, at his age, I wonder if it is because he is simply...incapable.’

 

Sherlock’s blood runs cold. So this is it, the apogee of Magnussen’s power play. Sherlock wishes he could claim surprise, but he had done his own research, prior to arranging this meeting. Yet he hadn’t wanted to really think...people didn’t actually _do_ things like this in real life, did they? It all seemed like something better suited to the telly screen and one of John’s ridiculous, contrived Bond villains.

 

John is silent for several moments, a fist clenched near but not touching his rather prominent erection, his body angled away from Magnussen in a futile instinct against exposure.

 

‘And if I refuse,’ John manages through his teeth, ‘you’ll do it for me, is that right?’

 

‘Well, of course,’ Magnussen agrees. ‘I would hate for something as trivial as a moral crisis to stand in the way of complete knowledge.’

 

‘Of course,’ John echoes with deadened voice. ‘Never mind the fact that not all men, not even all gay men, respond favourably to anal penetration.’

 

‘I suppose you’ll not take my word for it, either?’ Sherlock interjects. ‘If I were to tell you I am. Incapable.’

 

‘No,’ Magnussen concedes, ‘I would not.’

 

Well. It had been worth a shot. Dread churns through Sherlock’s intestines, and for a moment he wonders if he will vomit all over Magnussen’s pristine imported marble—almost hopes he will, but then again, better not, and risk worrying John any more than is unavoidable.

 

And where in the _seven hells_ is Mycroft, he wonders with escalating desperation. Surely he and his goons would be showing up any moment, now?

 

‘Go on, then. Sooner started, sooner finished.’ Magnussen smirks from his loose-limbed sprawl on the sofa. Sherlock hates the man incandescently.

 

Disinclination dragging at his every movement, Sherlock inhales deeply through his nose, exhales through his teeth. Slides his hands from where they clutch his knees, white-knuckled, to press them flat to the floor and shifts his weight until he is poised on all fours above his coat. From what he has read, this should be the easiest position for first-time penetration. Even if it weren’t, Sherlock can’t stomach the idea of facing John.

 

Sherlock holds himself steady on one hand while he uses the other to unbutton his suit jacket, to grimly undo his belt, slide down his zip, and then...stops. He is faint with nausea, and he cannot force himself to do more. _Please, John_ , he thinks, hating himself as he does it, but finally, John shakes himself from whatever trance of horror had evidently taken hold of him as he stood there looking down at Sherlock reduced to _this_. John’s shoes disappear from Sherlock’s field of vision as his friend steps behind him without a word.

 

John tentatively kneels behind him (comes down a little harder on the left knee than the right, the ‘bad’ leg clearly playing up on him), and his hands hover uncertainly at Sherlock’s hips for a moment before he grasps the waistband of the trousers. John peels them down until they rest around Sherlock’s upper thighs.

 

The muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders ache with tension, and thankfully John doesn’t draw it out, simply tucks his thumbs beneath the elastic of Sherlock’s boxer-brief style pants and jerks them down, being considerate enough to push his thumbs sufficiently forward to avoid catching uncomfortably on Sherlock’s genitalia.

 

Sherlock is sick with anxiety. Pulse jackrabbit fast, his hands are clammy.

 

_(Don’t be alarmed; it’s to do with sex.)_

 

He hadn’t been lying. Sex doesn’t alarm him, not in the abstract, and not as an objective third-party witness. As long as it has nothing whatsoever to do with his own person, Sherlock can’t really be arsed to care one way or the other about it, except so far as it goes toward criminal motivation. The joke is on Magnussen, if he thinks Sherlock’s habits of pornographic consumption are indicative of anything other than statistic-gathering experiments or case-related research.

 

However, Sherlock is forced to admit, being compelled to kneel atop his own coat on all fours and resign himself to imminent violation at the hands of the one man about whose opinion of him Sherlock has ever really cared, is not the least bit abstract.

 

From the beginning of their acquaintance, Sherlock had made certain to shut down any possible avenues of discussion on his sexuality. Information that was immaterial to a flatshare, then irrelevant in a friendship, would now only be deeply uncomfortable within a one-sided romantic attraction. There was no dignified way to explain something like “asexual, with the theoretical possibility of homo-demisexuality, by which I mean ‘John-sexual.’” Whether John believed Sherlock to be aromantic, asexual, celibate, gay...it hardly mattered, as Sherlock had never intended to act on any of it. As far as Sherlock’s own inclinations went, one did not need attempt repeated sowings to determine a field, fallow for all of known memory, was in actuality barren.

 

_(It’s all about knowledge. Everything is.)_

 

But in this one thing, Sherlock does not want to know. The idea of knowing without a doubt, one way or the other, is terrifying. Far better to salt the earth liberally and conspicuously, than to stand amidst that barren field and leave the opportunity for a single second of consideration upon the question of what ugly, stunted, sterile thing might take root there, but for a single cupped palm of water which would never be given. It isn’t John’s fault that he does not love Sherlock in this particular way.

 

There is the rustle of clothing, and John places his coat bunched on the floor, opposite side of Sherlock from Magnussen. Magnussen is silent, so Sherlock has no choice but to assume John has either successfully managed to keep him from seeing the firearm, or Magnussen has seen, and is utterly unconcerned.

 

‘Should probably take off your jacket,’ John tells him, his left arm moving into Sherlock’s line of sight with an awkward gesture toward the packet of lubricant. ‘The shirt too, while you’re at it.’

 

‘No, thank you, I think not,’ Sherlock replies crisply, relieved beyond telling at the steadiness of his own voice. He snatches up the foil packet and slaps it into John’s hand. The hand retreats.

 

‘Suit yourself. If you want to faff about soaked in cold urine, far be it from me to stop you.’

 

‘As long as you stick to statistical findings for ejaculation time of the average adult male, this should all be done and over within three minutes, so it hardly seems worth the effort,’ Sherlock snarks back.

 

‘You forget—this isn’t about me at all. It’s all on you, Sherlock, and I’d hardly accuse you of something so _boring_ as being average.’

 

With an explosive sigh of annoyance, theatrics intended to distract from the trembling of his hands, Sherlock practically rips the suit jacket from his body, nearly elbowing John in the eye in the process. He makes a show of hurling his jacket down atop John’s, and it allows him to confirm that John’s weapon is indeed wadded inside it, but this is as far as Sherlock will disrobe. He would rather deal with the inconvenience and smell of his likely ruined Dolce shirt than remove it at present time, for present audience. Sherlock is not so blind to social conventions (not anymore) that he does not understand what John is trying to do, and part of him is...grateful. This will not damage them, irreparably.

 

Sherlock returns to his previous position, hands and knees, and his limp penis hangs awkwardly, brushing against the hem of his shirt. So. The obvious tactic here is to take John’s comment as a challenge. Sherlock sincerely doubts he can manage three minutes, even under ideal conditions, but if he really tries, perhaps he can achieve five. Though that does not take into account the unknown variable of anal penetration.

 

‘Get on with it,’ he orders, because Magnussen is correct of course, sooner started, sooner finished, and as the starting is unavoidable, Sherlock would rather any finishing happen well before his late, _late_ brother arrives.

 

John lays a palm on Sherlock’s lower back and leaves it there. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and he wants to be comforted, but finds it impossible, knowing what is coming next.

 

‘Sherlock,’ John sighs, sounding exasperated, and Sherlock cannot _imagine_ what John Watson possibly has to be exasperated at _him_ about. When he speaks again, his voice is pitched low enough for Sherlock’s ears alone.

 

‘If you’ve really never done this before, I’m sure as hell not going to just—‘

 

‘For god’s sake,’ Sherlock snarls under his breath. The apprehension is threatening to bring up his meagre lunch. ‘It doesn’t _matter_ , I’m giving you permission, I’m not made of bone china! If you have any regard for me whatsoever, you’ll stop coddling me and _do it_ , because I can’t bear—‘ His jaw snaps shut as he stops himself from completing that sentence. Sherlock struggles to master his brittle voice, to force the words through the irrational lump in his throat and make John understand. ‘The anticipation is _worse_ than the act, John.’

 

John is quiet for a long moment, so long that Sherlock begins to worry John will fight him on this, or Magnussen will say something horrible, but finally, _finally_ , John exhales a tense and audibly unhappy breath from his nose.

 

‘Fine. Yes, all right, you’re right,’ he says, and the next thing Sherlock hears is the crinkle and rip of the foil packet. There is a brief pause, then John’s fingertip, cold with slick, skims the tightly clenched muscle of his anus.

 

‘Try to relax,’ John advises, a retreat to doctor-mode as he grasps for some pseudo-professional distance between himself and Sherlock.

 

Sherlock snorts, nostrils flaring, and makes a conscious effort, despite the creeping, queasy sensation of self-loathing which begins to squeeze around his ribs like a vice. And _that_ is familiar, from previous explorations involving his own sexuality and the addition of a second party. Being stone cold sober for the experience is something new, though only serves to confirm Sherlock’s long-held suspicion that sobriety simply makes him feel his inadequacy, his _freakishness_ , all the more keenly.

 

John’s finger carefully pushes in to the first knuckle. Then, when Sherlock says nothing, the second. Sherlock attempts not to vibrate out of his own skin.

 

‘Okay?’ John asks.

 

Sherlock lifts his head from between his shoulders enough to give a terse nod. He is not lying, exactly, because by any explanation John would be able to understand, Sherlock is “okay.” He is not in any pain, not in any strictly physical discomfort beyond the mechanics of it.

 

John slides his finger out until just the tip remains inserted, but Sherlock’s relief is short-lived. The finger returns to lightly palpate his prostate, causing the muscles of his pelvic floor to jump. Sherlock jolts, not having expected that so soon in the proceedings.

 

‘Shh, it’s all right, perfectly normal,’ John assures him, attempting to soothe Sherlock’s skittishness, but the words merely serve to drive home to Sherlock how very Not Normal he feels.

 

_Is it?_ he wants to ask, but won’t, of course, not with Magnussen hovering just out of sight like some great vulture, waiting for the scent of blood. _Wouldn’t a normal male be at least the slightest bit stimulated by now?_ Sherlock wouldn’t know. After his own disappointing experiments, any continued study of others’ apparent ease of success had felt too much like salt in the wound.

 

John takes his silence as permission to continue. Rubs his finger cautiously around the walls of Sherlock’s rectum before returning to his prostate with gentle, indirect pressure. Sherlock takes his lower lip between his teeth and stares fixedly at the floor. The sensation is not entirely pleasant, yet still vaguely so, all the same, and Sherlock can’t even begin to determine how he would conceptualize such a thing. John continues to probe at him with that single finger and eventually, Sherlock is able to acclimatise, as long as he considers it part of a mildly distasteful yet regretfully necessary medical procedure. As long as he keeps his mind firmly on his own body without making the mistake of visualising the unflattering tableau he must present.

 

Finally, John’s finger slips free of Sherlock’s body and Sherlock inhales slowly, congratulating himself on retaining his equanimity. He’ll never make it to orgasm in five minutes, at this rate, but he will get through this.

 

After a moment, John’s fingers return. Two this time, cool with added lubricant, and Sherlock hopes John is being economical with it; Magnussen only granted them the one packet.

 

John circles the rugose skin of his anus, massaging, coaxing, and while not arousing in the least, Sherlock appreciates the clarity of intent behind the touch. Gradually, John insinuates the tips of his fingers and proceeds to work at the outer sphincter, without going deeper quite yet. Sherlock hisses in through his teeth, his hands fisting in the tweed of his Belstaff beneath him. John freezes.

 

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock insists. ‘I’m fine, keep going.’ He makes a conscious effort to relax his shoulders from where they’ve begun creeping up around his ears.

 

After a momentary hesitation, John continues. The touch is...tolerable, the combination of the tips of John’s two fingers just inside the rim of his anus, his thumb pressed to the external edge of the muscle, the incidental brush of ring-finger knuckle against Sherlock’s perineum. While Sherlock would have assumed it to be stomach-churningly intrusive, instead he finds it...grounding, and it helps keep the worst of the panic at bay. Because it is John, doing as needs must, even if he doesn’t entirely agree with it, but doing it all the same because Sherlock has told him to. That, at least, is a reliably familiar dynamic between them.

 

John braces his left hand on Sherlock’s hip, and it’s more stimulating than any touch has been until this point. From extremely scattered, not particularly reliable past experiences, Sherlock has ascertained he can enjoy and is exceptionally sensitive to non-sexually-explicit, affectionate touch, as long as it is from an acceptable individual, with acceptable (non-sexual) motives. John’s hand curled around his hip is a sensation which Sherlock is able to quantify as definitively Good, and as such, it has the skin all along Sherlock’s left side tingling, from knee to ribcage.

 

Distracted by the hand on his flank, Sherlock doesn’t tense up as quickly as he might have done when John slides the fingers of his right into him completely, all the way to the third knuckle. A strangled noise is driven from deep within Sherlock’s chest, incompletely smothered, and John’s left thumb caresses the blade of Sherlock’s ilium, rubs soothing circles along the edge of the bone with firm pressure and it’s perfect, John is perfect, and Sherlock can almost forget about the invasive fingers, can almost pretend, with his eyes squeezed shut, that they’re knelt on the floor of the sitting room at Baker Street, fresh off a fantastic case and John couldn’t wait, wanted this, wanted _him_ , and John understood it wouldn’t be a regular thing, and was fine with it, _(It’s all fine)_ , but Sherlock had given it to him because he’d wanted to, because he—

 

The clink of glass on glass (tumbler on table) brings Sherlock crashing back into the reality of the situation. He gasps sharply through his nose, clamping down on John’s fingers reflexively, and the implacableness of them being _there_ , embedded, threatens to send Sherlock into a panic attack. His vision greys worryingly, struck as he is by a feeling of disconnect from his own body. With delayed humiliation he realises he is nearly half-hard.

 

‘Sherlock?’ John murmurs over his shoulder, concern evident in his voice. ‘Sherlock,’ he repeats, more firmly, ‘answer me.’

 

‘What?’ Sherlock bites out, his voice higher than normal, strained, and he hates it, he _hates_ the way his transport always chooses the worst moment to betray him. John may be an idiot when it comes to most things, but not the workings of the body, and while that about him usually fascinates Sherlock, right now he hates that, too, because it gives his execrable transport one more co-conspirator against him. Sherlock is trembling, his arms barely managing to keep him upright, his heart racing. John is hardly incompetent enough to miss all this, yet Sherlock wishes futilely that he will ignore it, will simply...let it be.

 

‘Right.’ John huffs. ‘That’s definitely enough of that, then,’ he says, and before Sherlock can protest, before he can demand John just get back to it already, does he want to be all day about it, John carefully withdraws his fingers from Sherlock’s anus with a wet, squelching noise that makes Sherlock’s stomach lurch ominously.

 

‘Turn around,’ John says, applying gentle but insistent pressure to Sherlock’s hip.

 

‘ _No_ ,’ he grits through his teeth. Unthinkable. He would rather submit to this indignity a dozen times, than have to face John while he does it.

 

‘Turn around and lie down, before you _fall_ down.’

 

‘If you would stop all this needless prattling and molly-coddling, we could have been done with this by now!’ Sherlock tramps down hard on the rising hysteria. He will not become hysterical over this.

 

‘Oh yeah?’ John retorts. ‘And you could have yourself a rectal tear, while you’re at it, would you like that? So you and your bloody _pride_ could leave here and have to go to hospital right after, where you’d need to explain what happened to everyone, explain that your _best friend_ ra—!’ John’s voice cracks on the word, and it’s a moment before he can continue, sounding like he’s swallowed broken glass. ‘Raped you? Is that what you want, Sherlock?’

 

‘No!’ Sherlock groans, hunching over his knees to fist his hands in his hair. No, he didn’t want that! But couldn’t John understand that all he had left at this point was his ‘bloody pride’?! He couldn’t submit to this when there was the possibility of John seeing everything on his face, every small, hideous, lonely, _pathetic,_ unrequited vulnerability within Sherlock which made him love John despite the countless—countless!—reasons it was impossible: sexual incompatibility, Sherlock’s personality, John’s trust issues, Sherlock’s lack of any worthwhile contribution to bring to a romantic relationship, John’s desire for children, John’s desire for a life partner of whom he wouldn’t have to be ashamed, John’s desire for—stop, End Routine, stop it, just **_stop it_**.

 

Even if John didn’t see it, by some sheer pig-headedness remained ignorantly or willfully blind to Sherlock’s own ‘human error,’ there was still Magnussen, and Magnussen would see it, Magnussen would know, and by someone else knowing, it was somehow made real, and Sherlock would never escape his own knowledge of it. It would fester like gangrene, and Sherlock would have no option but to amputate, or let it kill him, and he already knew which choice he would make.

 

He _could not_.

 

‘John, please,’ he murmurs _sotto voce_. ‘If you would spare me at all...’

 

‘No. No, Sherlock, stop right there. We’ve tried it your way, and look where it’s gotten us.’ His left hand comes down on Sherlock’s shoulder and it takes everything Sherlock has, not to go rigid beneath it and prove John right.

 

John leans forward slightly, his voice low in Sherlock’s ear, and threaded through with frustration, as if Sherlock should already know what he’s about to say, or at the very least, care. ‘If I can’t see you, I’m going to have a hell of a time telling if I’m hurting you, or going too fast, or, Jesus, if you’re getting at all close to...’ John trails off, and in his peripheral, Sherlock sees him lift his eyebrows significantly and nod in the direction of Sherlock’s lap.

 

‘Is there a problem?’ Magnussen asks. His tone pretends at solicitousness, but it’s hardly convincing, seeing as there is also something rather pointed about it. ‘Do I need to step in to test Sherlock’s limits, myself, after all?’

 

Sherlock is filled with revulsion for the man with every fibre of his being. _(Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets.)_ Of course he would do anything for John’s sake. Anything. He had just foolishly hoped to get to the end of this Sword of Damocles bit without being expected to do the one thing he had both simultaneously wished and feared John would never, ever ask of him.

 

‘No,’ John barks, his hand tightening for a too brief second on Sherlock’s shoulder before sliding away. ‘No, just...negotiating.’

 

‘Ah, well, in that case.’ Magnussen stretches out to spread his arms over the back of the sofa. ‘You had better hurry. While I can be an extraordinarily patient man under the right circumstances, I assure you, this is not one of them.’

 

Sherlock slowly removes his hands from his hair. He often has difficulty maintaining physical arousal, even at the best of times, and there is nothing arousing in the least about the thought of being splayed on his back, _Lepidoptera Glossata_ pinned to a card. John’s well-meaning scruples aside, this is one concession Sherlock will not make.

 

‘I can’t. In that position,’ he tells John firmly, because John responds more favourably to him saying he _can’t_ do something than he does to Sherlock saying he _won’t_ (deludes himself into thinking it indicates tractability on Sherlock’s part), and if John takes it to mean a mechanical defect of the transport itself, all the better.

 

‘However...’ Here is where he pauses. He needs a compromise acceptable to both parties, one which will assuage John’s caretaker tendencies, while still allowing Sherlock to maintain the fiction that he is not being forced to submit himself to the one thing he has spent his entire adult life actively avoiding. ‘If I promise to inform you, verbally...’

 

John snorts indelicately. ‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, I’ll only agree if you _swear_ you will answer me, in words, every time I ask you if you’re all right—every time, Sherlock—and if you’re not honest with me, so help me, I will put you on your back and I will _keep_ you there, do you understand?’

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock blurts without thought, pulse skittering, unable to decide if this is the most frightening thing he has ever heard come out of John Watson’s mouth, or the most titillating.

 

‘Good, okay. Let’s, ah, try this again, then.’

 

Sherlock nods once, tersely, and returns to his hands and knees, knelt in the centre of his greatcoat. He is completely soft once more, unsurprisingly.

 

John’s hand returns to Sherlock’s hip, squeezes reassuringly. ‘A cold start probably wasn’t the best way to go about it,’ he concedes ruefully (surprisingly apt comparison, considering John’s lack of any truly useful knowledge about computers and technology; too surprising, so, a mechanical metaphor in deference to Sherlock’s habitual use of the term “transport”?), and his thumb slips beneath the hem of Sherlock’s dress shirt to rub again at the blade of his hip. Just rubbing, nothing expectant in the touch. It’s...lovely, or would be, under other circumstances. But these are the circumstances Sherlock has been given, and he doubts there will be any grinning, but he will certainly bear it.

 

‘How do you prefer to be touched, then?’ John asks with quiet consideration, and there’s that damn nobility again. If John believes Sherlock unable to detect the genuine curiosity behind the question, though, he is sadly mistaken. Meretricious.

 

How does he prefer to be touched, Sherlock wonders? It is not a subject to which he had given much thought for years, at least not until John, and that case with the Woman, and even that had been more academic, than anything. No, the only time Sherlock had been weak enough, _low_ enough to indulge in something that ludicrously sentimental was during his time away, as a mental exercise in mitigating the effects of torture, initially. Upon his return to London, however, finding John decidedly affianced and himself decidedly unforgiven for leaving in the first place, Sherlock had given up all those “hypotheticals and half-formed would-haves” as impossible, and foolishly masochistic.  

 

Sherlock exhales harshly, filled beyond reckoning with self-loathing. _By you_ , he thinks, but doesn’t dare say. _Obviously_.

 

‘I don’t know,’ he replies instead, stiffly. Irritated. He is the limiting reagent in his own chemical reaction, and it is ridiculous. ‘I’ve not much...data,’ he is forced to admit.

 

‘All right, that’s fine, Sherlock. That’s about what I’d suspected.’ John’s right hand slides up beneath Sherlock’s shirt to press briefly to his stomach, above his navel. ‘Though I thought, maybe, with Janine...?’

 

Sherlock snorts. ‘Please, John. Don’t be dull.’ Hopes the derision in his tone is enough to distract from the trembling of his abdominal muscles beneath John’s touch.

 

‘Right, okay, apologies for being dull. Do you—look, can I unbutton this, at least?’

 

Sherlock swallows thickly. ‘Fine.’

 

Both John’s hands slip beneath his torso, and while Sherlock would have expected quick, efficient movements in the interest of time, John’s fingers work methodically up the placket of his shirt, hem to collar. Sherlock makes an effort to collect himself as John finishes, allowing the damp fabric to fall open.

 

Starting at the base of his throat, John sweeps a palm down Sherlock’s chest, over clavicle, then sternum, only to stop as his fingers make contact with the freshly healed wound below Sherlock’s right pectoral. John inhales sharply.

 

Sherlock had always put John off with some excuse or another, any time John would ask to see it, these past few months as they convalesced at Baker Street (ostensibly, he hadn’t wanted to cause John distress, particularly when it was still in the best interests of John and the baby’s safety to forgive Mary, to keep her close; however, Sherlock could not deny a significant portion of it was also ~~petulance over~~ the fact that he had never been permitted to see _John’s_ scar). But now John’s fingers trace the sensitive edges of it, and this is dangerous territory, Sherlock thinks, because somehow this leaves him feeling even more raw and exposed than John’s fingers between his thighs.

 

‘John,’ he rasps, but can’t continue, having no idea what he means to say.

 

Behind him, John finally exhales, and the touch resumes. Both hands now, moving out along Sherlock’s ribs before coming to a rest, anchored to, anchoring, Sherlock’s hips with unexpected force.

 

‘How about—’ John clears his throat. ‘How about I touch you, and you tell me a simple yes or no: “yes, please, more of that,” or “no, definitely not that,” can you manage that?’

 

‘Yes, fine,’ Sherlock huffs. Keeps his eyes closed. It will be easier if he can concentrate on the sensations alone, and not on how he must look. Otherwise, he risks becoming fixated on how horribly awkward and undignified and unattractive it all is, and it will be entirely self-defeating.

 

John again takes up the circular caress of Sherlock’s iliac crest with his thumbs, both sides this time. Sherlock is uncertain if this is meant to be John’s first step in the no doubt arduous task of chivvying him toward orgasm, or a simple delaying tactic as John considers his options, but Sherlock wants to show he is being cooperative, so he says ‘Yes.’

 

John’s hands skim up either side of Sherlock’s ribcage, over his shirt, and Sherlock steels himself against the reflexive flinch.

 

‘No.’ _Too ticklish_ , Sherlock doesn’t say, because thinking the word is ridiculous enough. Thankfully, John doesn’t press, simply takes Sherlock at his word and continues to his shoulders.

 

‘Mm,’ Sherlock grunts as strong hands alight on the anxiety-taut muscles of his deltoids, his trapezius, the rhomboid major and minor. ‘Yes. But not exactly...stimulating,’ he adds in the interest of full disclosure. John’s only response to this is to dig his fingers harder into the meat of Sherlock’s upper back.

 

Sherlock bites down on his lip to avoid groaning aloud at the pleasurable pain of it, but John does not relent, and Sherlock gradually, warily, allows himself to be molded by the capable heat of John’s hands, the worst of his tension forcibly pulled from his body. Sherlock’s head drops as John’s hand wraps around the nape of his neck, massaging firmly. A faint tremor shivers down his spine, seemingly sensitising everything in its wake and _oh_ , perhaps he was too hasty with his previous assessment.

 

Sherlock’s head lolls even further, following the guidance of John’s hand, helplessly, until John’s fingers crawl into the curls at the base of his skull and rub five points of exquisite pressure against his scalp. Sherlock’s whole body shudders, a moan caught behind his teeth, ‘ _Yes_ ,’ he whispers, barely audible, but surely it is obvious. John tightens his fist, tugging carefully, and Sherlock begins to feel lightheaded. He is certain his arms are about to buckle beneath him, isn’t entirely clear whether he doesn’t say this aloud, but then John’s hand in his hair is gently yet resolutely directing his head lower and lower, until Sherlock is held up on his forearms, knelt with his forehead pressed to the floor.

 

John’s hand remains fisted in his hair, a silent injunction against movement which Sherlock would never dream of defying. The fingers of John’s other hand glide down his spine, John’s touch seeming to burn even through the fabric of his shirt. The fingers cut across Sherlock’s hip, down into the tender slice of skin between thigh and groin, and rest against the base of Sherlock’s mostly quiescent prick.

 

‘No,’ Sherlock protests sharply, that sick feeling of wrongness in his own skin threatening to descend, and John’s fingers immediately retreat.

 

‘All right, okay, that’s fine, Sherlock, it’s okay.’

 

‘I know it’s okay,’ he retorts defensively, it’s _his_ body, after all. That particular portion, he is well aware, will only perform for him (and even that has always been rather hit-or-miss).

 

John’s hand wraps around his hip with an apologetic squeeze, and Sherlock tries to allow himself to be mollified. Tries to relax into the feel of John attentively carding fingers through his curls with one hand and knuckling into the muscles of his lower back with the other, because that is much more pleasant. Especially when John digs the ball of his thumb in ever-constricting circles down the length of Sherlock’s sacrum.

 

‘Mm, that, yes,’ Sherlock grudgingly concedes.

 

Try as he might, however, he can’t quite recapture his earlier lassitude. John has made a commendable effort, but Sherlock’s body is being predictably recalcitrant, and he’s not certain how much more of this hot-and-cold, start-and-stop he can endure before he’ll be wanting to scream with frustration.

 

John’s thumb reaches the very apex of the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, then repeats its journey in reverse. ‘If you don’t want me touching your bits, that’s going to have to be your job,’ John points out reasonably, if extremely obviously. When Sherlock remains mulishly silent, John apparently finds it necessary to let even more asinine words fall from his mouth, unchecked.

 

‘You’re not going to be able to come from penetration alone,’ he informs Sherlock, as if a few adventurous years in the army and a possible (more data needed) long-running fling with his _Ex-commander Sholto_ made him an expert. As if Sherlock is not perfectly capable of his own edification on the subject of anal sex by spending five minutes on a Google search and finding more explicitly-worded advice blogs written by homosexual males than could ever _possibly_ need to exist.

 

‘Touching my own _bits_ , yes,’ he acknowledges with a mocking sneer that he hopes John can hear in his voice. Because clearly he owes John equal complicity in his own sexual degradation, but if John insists upon being an idiot, then Sherlock needn’t be any more pleasant about _this_ than he used to be when John would harangue him about eating and sleeping whilst on a really excellent case.

 

‘Tell me, Captain Watson, is this how you seduced all your conquests on three separate continents? By _nagging_ them to completion?’ Possibly (likely) an unfair assessment. After all, Sherlock is sure every one of John’s more amorous adventures abroad were at the very least mutually satisfactory, if not imbued with a desperate passion born more of the hovering spectre of mortality than any real--

 

The forceful crack of John’s palm against his arse shocks every thought from Sherlock’s head, wipes his mind utterly clean.

 

‘Oh ho!’ Magnussen begins to chortle, loudly, but it is immaterial because John has wrenched Sherlock’s head back in order to make sure he has Sherlock’s undivided attention, and _by god_ , does he.

 

‘Dammit, Sherlock,’ John hisses in his ear with dangerous sincerity, ‘I am trying here, I really am. I am trying to be considerate of the fact that you haven’t been touched like this before. I’m trying to be considerate of the fact that the first—who knows, with you, maybe only!—time it happens, it has to be your best mate, in front of the most depraved bastard in all the country, and that you’re obviously terrified out of your great bloody _mind_ , and you’re feeling defensive, and lashing out.’ John adjusts his grip in Sherlock’s hair, breathing heavily. ‘I’ve been trying to be considerate of the fact that you’re still healing from a bullet _my wife_ put through your chest. But you can never listen to anything I say, even when it’s for your own good, can you? You can never make things easier on yourself, just have to be such a bloody _hard-touch_.’

 

‘John...’ Sherlock swallows tightly, pants around the words. ‘I...’

 

‘Shut up, Sherlock, because I’m not through,’ John warns him. With a shake of his head, John huffs a humourless laugh. ‘I’ve stood back and followed your lead on dozens of insane cases--because that’s what you do, that’s what you _know_ , and you’re brilliant at it, and I have always, always respected that, even when I didn’t agree with your methods. I’ve never fought you on it, not unless you were being a thick-headed idiot and putting yourself at risk of serious harm. But this...’ John sucks in a breath that sounds pained. ‘This is something you don’t know. And I don’t agree with it, you’re definitely putting yourself at risk of serious harm, but you will have to stop fighting me on this because there is **_no way in hell_** I am letting Magnussen put his hands on you.

 

‘So for once in your life, Sherlock, I am asking you to listen to me when I tell you to _stand down_ and trust me to get you through this. You’re going to stop thinking about anything but putting your hand on your cock and doing exactly as I say, when I say it. “Yes” or “no” answers only. Understood?’

 

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Sherlock says, and it feels as if it comes from the very soles of his feet. Dazed, he shifts his balance on his left forearm, reaches for his prick and gingerly wraps his hand around it. Flushes with shame as he does so. ‘Yes,’ he repeats, unsure if he has said the word, or merely thought it.

 

No more thinking. He needs to disengage his brain, John says so, and they have only reached this point because for every step forward they take, Sherlock’s brain wrestles him two steps back, so the prudent thing to do here is defer to John’s much greater experience.

 

‘Good,’ John says, and releases Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock curls in on himself, presses his feverish face against the wool of his Belstaff. His penis twitches in his hand.

 

‘Hold on,’ John admonishes, ‘not like that. Give me your hand.’

 

Gentle pressure on his wrist, and John pulls Sherlock’s hand away from his lap, lays a cool stripe of lubricant down the centre of his palm.

 

‘Go on, now,’ John orders. ‘Get that back around your prick, get yourself nice and slick, because you’re going to keep at it until I tell you otherwise.’

 

Good _Christ._

 

Sherlock does as he’s told. Wraps his own long fingers around his stiffening prick and gives it a few desultory pulls as he waits for John to instruct him in what to do next.

 

John’s hands tug at Sherlock’s trousers and pants, lowering them from his thighs to his knees. ‘Budge up,’ John mutters as he taps the inside of Sherlock’s leg with the back of a hand, coaxing his thighs further apart. The knuckles against Sherlock’s inner thigh migrate higher, higher, until they brush against his scrotum, sending a rush of exhilarated terror through him, and he holds his breath.

 

‘Sherlock. Yes or no.’

 

He releases his breath noisily, relieved, then irritated at himself for the relief. He knows John will not take any liberties Sherlock himself does not allow, he _knows_ this, why was he behaving like this?

 

‘No,’ he answers, as steadily as he is able, which isn’t very. ‘But.’ John said yes or no answers only, didn’t he? Perhaps he had better not.

 

‘But what, Sherlock?’

 

‘The puh—perineum,’ he mumbles into his coat, mortified by his own brazenness. ‘Yes.’

 

‘Good, that’s good, Sherlock,’ John assures him. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

 

Sherlock’s initiative is rewarded by John teasing his knuckles over that very spot as he uses his thumb to smear a globule of lubricant across Sherlock’s hole. John plies the muscle with alternating pressure, light and firm, and every so often the tip of his thumb dips _inside_ , and there is no pattern to it Sherlock can discern, but he belatedly supposes that is rather the point.

 

‘Are you still stroking yourself?’ John wants to know. Which seems a ridiculous question, surely he knows the answer, can see the lack of movement in Sherlock’s shoulder as he simply holds himself, distracted by the—

 

John’s left hand slaps down hard onto his upturned buttock, and Sherlock involuntarily clenches around John’s thumb, startling a grunt from himself. His prick throbs in his hand. A swipe of his finger confirms that he is beginning to leak, foreskin partially retracted.

 

Sherlock tugs himself absently from root to tip, his hips jerking once as he briefly concentrates his attention on the frenulum. ‘Yes, John,’ he pants.

 

John’s left hand goes to his tailbone, massaging unhurried circles there, just above Sherlock’s arsehole. Easing the stretch as he removes his thumb, replaces it with two fingers.

 

‘Oh, god,’ Sherlock whispers, bucking into his own fist, but John’s hand doesn’t quite follow, and when Sherlock settles back to centre himself over his knees again, the movement has him fucking himself on John’s fingers. ‘Oh, _god_...’

 

_Shut up, shut up_ , he tells himself furiously, but John hooks his fingers, drags them slowly from Sherlock’s body until the tips catch at his rim, then slides them back into Sherlock. Grinds the knuckle of his third finger into Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock feels himself twitch and tighten around John’s fingers.

 

‘You all right, Sherlock?’

 

‘Y-yes.’

 

‘What are you doing with your hand?’ John asks, pointedly.

 

Sherlock strokes himself obediently, twists his wrist on the upstroke, huffs a breath though his nose as he struggles to remain silent. Another stroke, and this time his hips follow along helplessly, pumping into his hand; when his hips retreat, John’s fingers are there, plunging slow and deep. The sensation is...not objectionable, and Sherlock only hesitates a moment before doing it again, then again, establishing a stilted rhythm between John’s fingers and his own fist.

 

‘Good, brilliant, you’re doing so well,’ John praises him and, _oh_ , the thrill of John’s earnest approval is a hundred times more disarming, like this. Sherlock feels his whole body flush with embarrassed pleasure.

 

John’s left hand trails along Sherlock’s skin, smooths over the curve of his buttock, and Sherlock shudders at the sense memory of the sting of his palm. His grip around himself tightens in response, the glide of his hand smooth and easy, now, as he realises with detached curiosity that he’s leaking freely. Interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the strength of John’s hand when he digs his fingers into the muscle of Sherlock’s arse, as he catches his thumb in the cleft and uses it to spread Sherlock wider, exposing him. A whimper works its way up Sherlock’s throat as his prostate throbs.

 

John uses his leverage to ensure Sherlock maintains the rhythm of his hips: tiny, languid, rolling motions, forward and back. It’s...good. Sherlock’s knees strain against the fabric of his trousers.

 

‘Just like that,’ John murmurs. ‘Just like that, fantastic. Do you think you’re ready for another finger?’

 

_Oh, god_ , Sherlock thinks. But John is proud of him, he is doing so well John says, and Sherlock is fairly certain his body _is_ going to cooperate. Orgasm still seems a good way off at this point, but definitely feels possible. Sherlock has passed the most difficult hurdle, at least. Maybe.

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says.

 

‘Good, all right, just relax,’ John urges. He pulls both his hands from Sherlock’s body. There is the crinkle of the foil lubricant sachet, then John’s left hand is sweeping down the length of Sherlock’s thigh to his knee, where he prods at him until Sherlock lifts the knee, allowing John to maneuver it free of trousers and pants. ‘Spread your legs a bit more, there you go.’

 

Sherlock lets John rearrange him as he will, gasping into the dampening wool of his coat. His limbs feel shaky, and not entirely reliable in continuing to hold his weight. Sherlock’s mind turns over once, without John’s precisely devastating touch, but before he can manage more than that, John is there, holding himself above Sherlock again as he massages three fingers into the rim of Sherlock’s arsehole.

 

Sherlock inhales sharply, momentarily tenses, but John, good John, brilliant John, perfect John knows how to distract him before the anxiety can crawl its way up his throat to choke him, and fists his free hand in Sherlock’s curls, tugging with strong, steady pressure. Sherlock cries out through gritted teeth, his mind abruptly blanks altogether, and when he regains his bearings, John’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles against the base of his skull, and he is carefully fucking Sherlock with three fingers.

 

John’s fingers are shorter than Sherlock’s own, but thicker (and Sherlock has never before been quite ambitious enough to go for _three_ ). There is an uncomfortable fullness, a slight burning, and Sherlock feels his hard-won arousal waver.

 

‘John,’ he breathes, uneasy.

 

‘Shh, I know, Sherlock, relax for me, you can do this,’ John tells him, which does make Sherlock feel marginally better, since it must be true. John is nothing if not honest to a fault. John’s honesty only ever extends to what people _want_ to hear about themselves, of course, with the notable exception of Sherlock, but that is even better, Sherlock likes it, being John’s exception. He can do this, if John says he can. Idiots do this sort of thing every day, don’t they, and keep going back for more? Sherlock closes his teeth down hard on a knuckle.

 

John takes up a slow, twist-in-twist-out motion, and the thumb of his other hand returns to digging those maddening little circles into Sherlock’s tailbone and it’s almost enough to make it bearable, but not quite. The slide of John’s fingers is not as smooth as before, and John has to use a bit more careful force than previously, in working Sherlock open. Sherlock struggles to remain silent, wants to be good for John, wants to get this _over with_ , but while Sherlock knows crime and chemistry and 243 types of tobacco ash, John knows bodies and Sherlock and, demonstrably, sex.

 

‘Shit,’ John swears under his breath as his hands still. ‘I can’t...There’s not nearly enough slick to do this properly. I don’t want to hurt you.’

 

‘I have a very high pain tolerance,’ Sherlock offers, but apparently bringing up pain tolerance in a sexually coercive context is Not Good, because John immediately removes his fingers, stops touching Sherlock altogether. He is silent for so long, Sherlock wonders if John has reached his limit. If he will try arguing with Magnussen again. Pointless, unless John manages to engage Magnussen for the next ten(?) minutes at a stretch, to give Mycroft time to arrive and Sherlock his opportunity to finally put a stop to this travesty; however, this is unlikely enough as to be impossible, seeing as Magnussen has already expressed his impatience once. With a man like Magnussen, once is all the warning Sherlock expects to receive.

 

‘One sachet of this stuff,’ John spits in Magnussen’s direction like an accusation. ‘Really?’

 

‘One is all you were given,’ Magnussen agrees, once he seems to decide John’s comment is not rhetorical. ‘I thought soldiers were supposed to be resourceful!’ He chuckles to himself.

 

‘You said it yourself, his body’s not used to this sort of thing,’ John growls. ‘I’m going to do it—I am doing it,’ he is quick to clarify, likely in response to something in Magnussen’s face, ‘I’m doing it, goddamn you, but your sick _curiosity_ won’t be satisfied if he’s in too much pain to even maintain an erection!’

 

Anger. John is angry, for his sake. For them being forced into this in the first place, as well. (In that case, he should be angry at Sherlock. Sherlock is the one who brought him here. All because he had wanted John along for another adventure, something to take John’s mind off the galling helplessness he felt, confronted with Mary’s duplicity and the tenuous state of their future as a couple, as a family. Instead, Sherlock had merely manipulated John into position to be made helpless in yet another way.)

 

‘Hmm. Perhaps you have a valid point, John,’ Magnussen eventually concedes. ‘Well, Sherlock?’

 

Sherlock takes his hand from himself, presses his fist to his upper thigh, hard, pushing his knuckles into the bone of his femur. He is well aware that if he asks anything of Magnussen now, it will come at a price. _(Magnussen only makes a deal once he’s established a person’s weaknesses.)_

 

‘Sherlock,’ John says behind him, warningly.

 

Sherlock wants to think that if he was at all interested in making this easier on himself, he would ignore Magnussen’s goading. That saying ‘yes’ would be purely for John’s benefit, because it would be much harder on John, causing Sherlock pain, than it would be for Sherlock to endure that pain in the name of spite. But he doesn’t want to have to remember pain at John’s hands, not of this kind. Because as much as he might wish otherwise, Sherlock is under no delusions that he will not remember every moment of this. John will have no choice but to remember, and allowing himself to delete today’s events when John cannot feels like unconscionable cowardice.

 

Sherlock cautiously pushes himself upright, until he is on his hands and knees once more.

 

‘Another sachet, pl—‘ He coughs once, attempting to dispel the unnaturally husky quality to his voice. ‘Please.’ His brain feels like it is coming back on line, and he reaches for that sense of clarity, as he waits to hear Magnussen’s terms. Tries to wrestle back some of his usual self-possession, for John’s sake. ‘You’ve clearly seen the size of what John is, ah, working with,’ he adds (blathers), gesturing vaguely behind himself without managing to look at either of the room’s other two occupants, ‘so it should come as no surprise that it’s highly unlikely to fit “as-is.”’

 

Magnussen puts on a show of deliberating the request, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the top of the sofa. Sherlock clenches his jaw. He will not _beg_.

 

Finally, Magnussen shrugs, palms turned up and spread wide, as if to indicate it is all the same to him. ‘As you wish.’ He stands from the sofa, hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers. ‘On one condition. Turn around and face John so he can see you, as he said. He is only trying to help you, Sherlock, and it seems you need as much help as you can get.’

 

Magnussen steps around the glass coffee table to approach the two of them. His feet come to a stop directly in Sherlock’s field of vision.

 

‘Besides.’ Another of the foil packets lands in front of Sherlock (in Magnussen’s pocket this whole time; waiting for just such an opportunity from the start). Sherlock doesn’t need to lift his gaze from the floor to recognise the audible smirk in Magnussen’s tone. ‘I wouldn’t want your little soldier friend to go _too_ easy on you. You seem to best enjoy a firm hand.’

 

Sherlock cringes at the taunt before he is able to shutter his face.

 

Magnussen turns his back on them to return to the sofa, and Sherlock wastes no time. Shifts his weight to reach behind and unlace his Oxfords so he can slip them off, then twists around to sit facing John, his stocking feet flat on the floor whilst his knees jut out awkwardly in the cramped, shared space afforded by his Belstaff. Sherlock steadfastly refuses to contemplate the alarming slickness between the cheeks of his arse.

 

Wordlessly, John assists him in removing his pants and trousers. Folds the trousers to add them to the growing pile of clothing beside them. Sherlock appreciates the gesture, though the winter-weight wool is already rumpled beyond salvaging. And then he is sitting in his socks and unbuttoned dress shirt with John knelt between his thighs, feeling hideously self-conscious in a way he has never experienced before. Every ounce of his willfully cultivated sexual ignorance weighs down on his chest like a stone, making it difficult to draw a full breath. John adjusts the placement of his own knees on the hem of Sherlock’s coat, leans forward, and with a nauseating sense of fatality Sherlock recognises this is it, John will swarm in and bear him down, flat on his back, all Sherlock’s efforts to avoid such a humiliating arrangement for naught.

 

But John simply reaches past his hip to retrieve the new packet of lubricant.

 

‘Come on, Sherlock, come here.’ John grasps Sherlock’s upper arm and tugs, maneuvering him astride John’s lap. ‘This is easier, isn’t it? You’ll be able to get off like this?’ John’s hands are warm, one on Sherlock’s hip, the other wrapped around him, supporting his back. It’s almost like an embrace, and it offers the advantage of allowing Sherlock to hook his chin over John’s shoulder to conceal his face. Which Sherlock does, tentatively, his own large hands grasping John’s shoulders with care.

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock agrees with more confidence than he feels, unutterably grateful for this one respite.

 

‘Good. Great. Thank god,’ John mumbles as his arms shift around Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock is uncertain if he imagines the fleeting sensation of John’s lips against the shell of his ear, but greedily (pathetically) files it away in a mental drawer for Wishful Thinking, nonetheless. John fumbles with the fiddly foil sachet. ‘Here we go,’ he informs Sherlock, and then he is carefully pushing three fingers back into Sherlock’s arse.

 

It’s more than a bit...overwhelming. Sherlock’s fingers tighten on John’s shoulders. John hisses, and Sherlock realises that his fingers are digging like claws into John’s bad shoulder, it must be excruciating, but John says nothing. Sherlock lets John guide him closer until they are chest-to-chin, and John’s other hand is rubbing wide circles over Sherlock’s back under the fabric of his shirt.

 

‘You okay?’

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock answers, and if it’s somewhat wobbly, John doesn’t call him out on it. ‘Yes,’ he repeats, more firmly, willing it to be true.

 

‘Wrap your arms around me,’ John suggests. ‘Hold on to me that way. Christ you’re tense. Try to ease up a bit, hmm?’ John’s hand massages at the base of Sherlock’s spine. ‘You’re like to pull something, if you keep this up.’

 

Sherlock curls his arms over John’s shoulders, around his neck, and buries his face against his own biceps. He makes a conscious effort to release the anxious tension in his muscles, because John is right, Sherlock is already aching all over, and he’s not done anything more strenuous than kneel here and there whilst John pushes perfectly adequately lubricated fingers into him. Clearly it is time to try again at that “being helpful” bit.

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath that presses his bare chest against the body-warm cotton of John’s shirt, then, exhaling slowly, he gradually relaxes his body, head to toe. He sinks into John, letting the smaller man take his weight, and he may be constitutionally unable to completely _let go_ of himself without chemical intervention, but he is able to loosen the reigns.

 

‘Oh my god,’ John says, ‘there you are. Isn’t that much better?’

 

Unlike hands-and-knees, being held in this manner doesn’t enable the detached, pseudo-anonymity for which Sherlock had been striving out of deference to John’s (tenuous) marital status and, yes, all right, self-preservation, obviously. Unexpectedly, though, Sherlock finds this position an improvement upon the situation, and his body’s ability to accommodate such an intimate intrusion, rather than a deterrent. Perhaps not so unexpected, that John should consider it an improvement, as well.

 

‘Yes,’ he admits into John’s ear, his voice low and rough, and, oh, John’s faint shiver at that is...gratifying. As is the way his arm cinches around Sherlock’s waist. John’s fingers push into Sherlock as far as they will go, given the current arrangement of limbs, and there is no imagining John’s lips at his ear this time. John’s warm, moist breaths against his skin, not quite steady, send tendrils of molten sensation licking down Sherlock’s vertebrae.

 

Magnussen shifts on the sofa, leather creaking, projecting an almost palpable aura of impatience. Sherlock’s fingers flex against John’s shoulder blade as he suppresses the urge to grab a fistful of the fabric beneath his hand.

 

‘Hey.’ John pinches the skin over his lowest rib to ensure he has Sherlock’s focus. ‘Listen to me. If it were up to me, Sherlock, I’d take my time with you, do it right. I’d open you up with four fingers and my mouth, work you nice and loose and wet, until there was no question of you being ready for my cock.’

 

Sherlock finds himself surprised by John yet again, marvellous John, _perfect_ John, who needn’t even lay a firm hand on Sherlock to succeed in utterly hollowing him out. Never in a thousand years would Sherlock have imagined John saying such words to him. To _him_. The noise Sherlock makes is unrecognisable as his own.

 

John tenses briefly in his arms, as though in an extreme effort of will against some word or action Sherlock cannot begin to guess at, then subsides. John’s hand has slid to his arse, gripping firmly, and it takes Sherlock several moments to realise it’s because he has begun to rut against John’s stomach.

 

‘But we don’t exactly have the luxury of time, or privacy here,’ John pants against his neck, twisting his fingers to graze Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s hips stutter, and he is fairly certain he must be leaking a significant wet patch onto John’s ridiculous plaid flannel shirt.

 

‘And you’re heavy, for such a scrawny bastard--I don’t know how much longer I can sit like this before my legs go numb. So this is going to be as quick as I can make it for you. It’s going to be pretty uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, Sherlock, you deserve as much time as you need. You deserve a proper shag, especially for a first time, and you’re not going to get it. So I need you to promise me something, all right? I need you to _tell me_ the second you think you might be at risk of actual damage. None of this ignoring what your body is trying to tell you until it’s too late, thinking you’ll just bully through it and damn the consequences, do you understand me?’

 

‘...Yes, John,’ Sherlock replies, his heart in his throat. Doesn’t add that he doesn’t care a whit about time for his unruly transport to fall in line or ‘a proper shag,’ as long as it is John, only John. A bit Not Good, that, Sherlock suspects.

 

‘Good, _thank you_ ,’ John sighs, and then he is pulling his hands away to tug himself free of his pants, to slick himself up, and Sherlock knows he shouldn’t watch, but he can’t _not_ watch, likely as this is to be something he’ll never see again. Sherlock ducks his head down, forehead wedged into the space between John’s neck and shoulder, and stares at John’s blood-flushed, straining prick, the glistening, winking meatus, the way John strokes perfunctorily with his off hand, readying himself.

 

Sherlock doesn’t know what on earth possesses him, except for the fact that John is a doctor, and doctors care about these kinds of things (tedious), and John was _so angry_ about the drugs that he finds himself lifting his head and blurting the words without conscious thought. Subdued and rapid, like a shameful secret.

 

‘I’m clean. They did blood tests in hospital, probably all of them, after the second surgery. Mycroft undoubtedly insisted.’

 

John glances up at him, seemingly as startled by the comment as Sherlock, and meets his eyes for the first time since Sherlock dropped to his knees for him. What Sherlock sees there confuses him, because there’s no reason at all John should look like _he’s_ the one who has willingly cracked open his own ribs and exposed his heart to the flail.

 

‘ _I_ insisted,’ John corrects him. ‘You never took the best care of yourself when we were living together, but in the few months I’d moved out—Jesus, Sherlock. Do you think I didn’t double and triple check all your labs, myself, while you were in there?’ John asks, as if Sherlock is the idiot here. A shadow passes over his face. ‘Had, ah, a few of my own tests run, since there was bugger all to do while I sat guard for weeks to make sure you didn’t pull another runner. Would have been stupid not to. I mean, if my own wife lied to me about being an assassin for hire under a false identity, who almost _killed_ my best friend, there’s no telling what else she’s lied about, is there?’

 

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes a few times, soundlessly. He hadn’t entertained even the slightest possibility of such a thing (having John, who would ever, ever dream of being unfaithful?), which in retrospect seems terribly remiss of him. There’s always _something_.

 

John’s eyes fall to Sherlock’s mouth, and his tongue darts out to touch the centre of his own bottom lip, briefly. Something in Sherlock’s chest wrenches painfully.

 

Sherlock has never enjoyed kissing, does nothing for him, except impart a mild disgust at the feel of another wet tongue against his own, someone else’s saliva in his mouth, and the unavoidable sense of his own failure to understand what ninety-nine percent of the population can possibly find of worth in the act. He’s not particularly practiced, at any rate, recent dalliance with Janine aside (had striven to keep those encounters as infrequent and closed-mouthed as possible), and wouldn’t want to disappoint John. Disappoint himself. Better to cut off at the knees any well-intentioned but ultimately doomed attempts from John to offer comfort or reassurance in such a manner, so Sherlock quickly tightens his arms around John’s shoulders, pushing himself up enough to give John room to penetrate him.

 

_Don’t think about it_ , Sherlock reminds himself sternly. He can feel Magnussen’s eyes crawling over him, but refuses to acknowledge the man’s presence. Keeps his eyes trained over John’s shoulder.

 

‘Do it, then,’ he grits through his teeth. ‘All this dawdling is intolerable. _’_

 

With a forceful exhale against his clavicle, John relents, swiping a generous amount of lubricant over Sherlock’s twitching hole.

 

‘Give me your hand,’ he says, jostling Sherlock’s right arm free of his shoulders and directing Sherlock to reach behind himself. ‘Grab hold of my prick and keep it in place while I help you ease down onto it, all right?’

 

Sherlock’s fingers curl apprehensively around John and he can’t help the curiosity that has him giving a single, awkward, underhanded stroke, feeling out the dimensions of it, the texture, the smooth slide of foreskin along the shaft. John is going to be working this inside his arse any second now, Sherlock acknowledges, nearly faint with disbelief at the unreality of their situation.

 

John grunts, his hips giving an aborted jerk into Sherlock’s grasp, butting up against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse where John holds him open, a hand wrapped high around the back of either thigh. ‘Jeeezus,’ John gasps, ‘ _Sherlock_.’

 

Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Sherlock presses the tip of John’s prick to his anus.

 

‘Don’t try to lower yourself. Let me support your weight, you just bear down against it, all right? Do you hear me?’

 

Sherlock hears him (always hears John, even when he isn’t there), but what is he supposed to—‘ _Oh! Christ!_ ’ he snarls as the head of John’s cock sinks partway into him, stretching him painfully. His hand spasms around John’s shaft; they’ve hardly begun, and already the urge to tear John’s prick out of him is nearly overwhelming, his fight-or-flight drive fully engaged. ‘ _John_.’

 

‘Shit, I know love, I know, I’m sorry, but you’re doing brilliantly, you can do this, just bear down, c’mon...’

 

Sherlock struggles to do as he’s told, and John slides into him another agonising few centimetres or so. His thighs shake, unable to hold him upright, but true to his word, John supports his weight. Concentrating on keeping his breathing deep and even, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, slumps forward to press his forehead hard against John’s temple, which is damp with perspiration.

 

‘There you go, exactly like that,’ John murmurs to him, his lips catching on Sherlock’s curls. ‘Just a bit longer, Sherlock, and once I’m in far enough that there’s no risk of slipping out again, you’re going to let go of my prick and put your hand back around yours.’

 

Sherlock huffs, ruffling the hair at John’s temple, and _bears down_. John pushes deeper. Sherlock chokes back a whimper.

 

‘The pain’s made you go a bit soft, I know, but that’s perfectly normal, that’s why you’re going to start pulling yourself off again when I tell you to. You’re going to use those long, lovely fingers of yours and pay plenty of attention to the head of your cock, make sure you stay nice and sensitive, will you do that for me?’

 

Sherlock nods weakly, beyond words. He would...he could do that, yes. When John told him to, yes. He bears down, and the head of John’s prick slowly sinks the rest of the way into him.

 

‘Oh, you’re amazing,’ John whispers, ‘absolutely...amazing, fuck.’ Gooseflesh prickles down Sherlock’s flanks at the earnest awe in John’s voice. ‘Yes, you can take your hand back, you did so well. Now use it to make yourself feel good, okay?’ His lips skim over the corner of Sherlock’s jaw in a fleeting kiss, yes, definitely a kiss, and Sherlock exhales shakily.

 

‘Yes, John,’ he rasps around the lump in his throat.

 

‘You’ll want to keep bearing down, when you can, until I’m completely inside you,’ John whispers. Sherlock doesn’t think he can speak, but he tightens the arm clinging round John’s shoulders to show he understands. He contracts his muscles, and John slips another inch deeper.

 

God, it feels as if he’s being split in two. No one else—he would never, ever do this for anyone but John, Sherlock is firmly decided on that point. The pain is intense, but in a sharp, localized way that makes it easier to compartmentalise. Nothing like, say, being brutalised in a Serbian dungeon.

 

Sherlock’s erection has flagged significantly, but John says this is normal, so he doesn’t let himself become overly concerned. Doubts he’s going to have much success with revival efforts at the moment, and instead tries to follow John’s instructions to maintain sensitivity, to “make himself feel good.” Sherlock reaches between the press of their bodies to touch himself cautiously, wary of how his genitals may react (or not) under this kind of stress.

 

He uses his first two fingers and thumb to gently work the sensitive prepuce up over the glans, to massage it there, then ease the fragile skin back, exposing the tip once more, before repeating the whole process. It’s...sufficiently distracting, if only mildly pleasurable, at least in Sherlock’s present frame of mind. Meantime, John pushes into him a bit further and Sherlock winces, his fingers clamping around the crown of his penis momentarily, an instinctive attempt to redirect the stimulus overload. John leans back in order to see Sherlock’s face.

 

‘Okay?’ he demands, his voice strained, the creases around his eyes worried. It suddenly strikes Sherlock how formidable John’s control over himself must be: to be able to sit back on his heels so awkwardly for Sherlock’s comfort, leveraging most of Sherlock’s weight in his arms, while he inches his way into Sherlock’s body at a glacial pace.

 

_John Watson, you are a marvel_ , he thinks, staggered, _and I never get your limits_. Daren’t say it aloud, because even in his head, the words sound damningly like a confession.

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock answers truthfully, but it feels like a lie; he is so _incalculably_ in love with John at that moment, he cannot bear it, and he can never say. Living with John has ingrained in him (among many other things he used to give no consideration whatsoever) that there are certain truths some people do not want to be told, and this is a burden of information which definitely falls within that category.

 

Something in John’s face crumples. ‘Oh, Sherlock,’ he murmurs.

 

Sherlock slams his eyes shut and averts with face, shaking his head in denial of whatever John believes he saw there. _Too much_ , Sherlock thinks, ruefully. He’d known this would happen.

 

‘Keep going,’ Sherlock orders, furious with himself. ‘The rest of the way. Finish it.’ He bears down against John, more than ready to be done with this portion of the proceedings, but John only allows him another painful inch. Sherlock hates him. Hates himself.

 

‘I asked you not to lie to me,’ John tells him, hands flexing against Sherlock’s arse as he leans in, leans up and pushes his nose against Sherlock’s cheek. ‘It was the one thing I wanted you to promise me, going into this.’

 

Sherlock gives a bitter, tremulous laugh. ‘Wrong. You, of everyone, should know I never make promises I have no hope of keeping.’

 

‘Then you promised to listen to me,’ John points out, implacably, ‘and trust me. So trust me.’

 

Sherlock takes a deep breath with the intention of arguing as to what he actually promised, opens his mouth to do so, but then John drags Sherlock fully onto his lap. John’s cock penetrates him to the root, and the indrawn breath becomes a strangled wail.

 

‘Shh, shh, I’ve got you,’ John assures him, his arms coming up to wrap tightly around Sherlock as he shakes and shudders and attempts not to pass out from a combination of pain and the sickening jangling of nerves insisting that something is _wrong_. ‘Sherlock, I’ve got you.’ John presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s temple.

 

‘John,’ he croaks, helplessly.

 

John’s lips move to the moisture at the corner of Sherlock’s eye; to his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth, where they linger.

 

‘Just relax, Sherlock. Let me do this for you.’ One hand skims up Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his skull so gently, so carefully, while the other arm draws Sherlock snuggly against the fragrant, comforting warmth of John’s body. ‘No thinking. We’re almost there.’

 

Oh god. _Almost_ , Sherlock tells himself, latching onto the word desperately. John is fully inside him and they are almost done, his brother is surely almost here, they can almost go home. He struggles to adjust to John’s girth, to internalise and set aside the pain.

 

‘John, _please_ ,’ he groans. He needs a distraction until his body acclimatises, something to take him out of his own head, and John has proved remarkably adept thus far. ‘I can’t—’

 

Sherlock can’t articulate what he needs, but he trusts John, he _does_ , even in this, and his faith is rewarded when John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and tips his head back, giving John the space to scrape his teeth along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, where he sucks the lobe into his mouth.

 

Sherlock is startled by his body’s immediate and visceral reaction, and the air punches from his lungs with a quiet _ah_ of sound. His nails bite into the skin at the nape of John’s neck, where he is clutching so fiercely it will surely leave bruises in the shape of his fingers.

 

‘Put your hand on your prick,’ John whispers against his ear, his breath hot and humid and threaded through with indisputable command. ‘Make yourself come for me.’

 

He _squirms_ on John’s cock as the words twist something deep in his belly.

 

‘Yes,’ he hears himself gasping, without thought, ‘I...yes.’ He needs to be good for John, John is doing all he can for Sherlock in this situation, and it is time for Sherlock to finish this, to release them both from Magnussen’s perverse machinations.

 

John shifts his grip on Sherlock, reaching blindly behind him, and at the distinctive crinkle, Sherlock obediently holds out his right hand for John. Instead of the sachet itself, John’s hand, slick with excess lubricant, tangles with Sherlock’s. John’s fingers slot between his own, warm and slippery, and John squeezes his hand.

 

Sherlock hesitantly shifts to draw the tip of his nose down John’s cheek, gratitude and apology all at once, the most he will allow himself, and squeezes back. Pulling his hand away, he wraps a large palm around himself. His prick pulses eagerly at the stimulation.

 

‘Hold on,’ John advises him, his breath ghosting across Sherlock’s cheek, then he is unwinding his arms to slide strong hands down the flimsy barrier of Sherlock’s shirt, where he rubs soothingly at the small of Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock tugs at his partially erect penis once, gingerly, then again. He’s begun to fill out again, the worst of the burning discomfort past, and painstakingly encourages himself back toward full hardness.

 

John’s finger dips to trace the rim of Sherlock’s anus where he is stretched around John’s prick. ‘No tearing,’ John breathes against Sherlock’s chin with something like relief. Sherlock pulls back enough to press his forehead to John’s, though he still refuses to open his eyes, and shakes his head in agreement. The pain has mostly faded to a dull ache, and there is nothing like the sharp sting of lacerated tissue.

 

‘All right?’ John asks, clearly wanting to be sure, and Sherlock nods. Bites his lower lip, brow furrowing, as he continues stroking himself. Chasing after the elusive sensation of that tipping point, the telltale tingling deep in his pelvis which will let him know orgasm has become not just possible, but inevitable. His hips begin to shift minutely, a rolling forward-and-back motion, of their own accord, and John’s hands snap up to still him, fingertips biting firmly into both flesh and bone. Sherlock wonders if these points of contact will bruise, too, then irrationally finds himself hoping they will, knows intimately his own lack of self-restraint and can already see himself pressing fingers into the marks when alone and relishing the sharp ache of broken capillaries beneath his skin.

 

‘ _John_.’

 

The word is hardly out of his mouth before John is talking over him, marginally coherent curses of ‘shit, sorry,‘ and ‘wait, don’t—’ and ‘ _Christ_ you’re tight.’ John’s fingers flex on his hips as he pants into Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Just...give me a moment,’ John bites out, his every muscle taut with constraint. It sends a heady suffusion of (stupid, nonsensical) proprietary pleasure through Sherlock, to know John is clinging so precariously to self-possession.

 

It would be so easy like this, Sherlock thinks, recklessly. To lick into John’s gasping mouth, let him catch Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth. Sherlock is familiar enough with the basic mechanics, can take an educated guess at what John likes, employ an inductive methodology as he goes. Sherlock is nothing, if not a quick study.

 

And it would be something of a novelty, he privately acknowledges, to be kissed as himself, rather than as an anonymous, vaguely willing and entirely transposable participant. To be kissed because of who he is, rather than in spite of it. It might make a difference—would it make a difference? Why would it make a difference?

 

Surely, Sherlock attempts to convince himself with pounding heart, any truth is better than infinite doubt?

 

‘Jo-John,’ he stammers, uncertainly. John isn’t letting him move, isn’t giving Sherlock instruction, and the ceaseless tumult of his higher cognitive processes is threatening to surface.

 

‘Yes. Fuck. Yes, all right.’ John’s hands constrict around Sherlock’s pelvis, and with the limited range of motion afforded by their position, John pitches his hips in a laborous, inelegant grind, ensuring Sherlock is seated securely in his lap. John gathers Sherlock in closer, smears his mouth down Sherlock’s throat to his suprasternal notch, where John flicks his tongue, sucks wetly at the tender flesh.

                                                                    

_Dear lord._ The sensation of John’s mouth on his neck is unexpectedly galvanic, and something disturbingly like a moan is shaken loose from Sherlock as he trembles in John’s arms. Sherlock concentrates on this, rather than the unnerving solidity of John’s substantial erection spitting him in place.

 

_Don’t think._

 

‘Your prick,’ John reminds him, again, and Sherlock slides his hand over himself purposefully. Unhesitating, now. Strives to keep his body occupied with a surfeit of sensual input so his mind will stay quiet, stay out of it, not ruin the tenuous balance of his arousal.

 

‘That’s it,’ John says as he tugs at Sherlock’s hips, encouraging Sherlock to begin hitching himself against John once more. With Sherlock settled so deeply in his lap, John’s leverage is negligible, but it’s...preferable this way, Sherlock decides. The thought of being held down, being made powerless, profoundly unsettles him. To feel as if he is being robbed of his sense of agency, even by necessity...it’s anathema.

 

_Don’t think._

 

It takes several long, self-conscious moments, but Sherlock manages to close off all extraneous, unproductive avenues of thought so he can focus his attention on the “now,” and on wresting his body into submission. He relinquishes his death grip on the nape of John’s neck in favour of cradling the dear skull in one large hand, and swallows his irrational terror. This is at least as difficult for John to do, as it is for Sherlock to let him. John doesn’t feel for him in quite the same manner as Sherlock does for John, obviously, but there is a great depth of caring, there, regardless; John will not injure him, will not mock or deride.

 

Sherlock holds John in place, mouth against Sherlock’s throat, against the wordlessly damning _vivace_ of his pulse. The wet sounds of Sherlock’s hand over his own cock seem unnaturally, humiliatingly loud. John groans softly, the sound unfamiliarly guttural, and Sherlock’s scrotum tightens.

 

**_Don’t think._ **

 

‘Oh, yes, there you go,’ John soothes him. He bites gently at the underside of Sherlock’s chin, at his Adam’s apple. ‘Stay out of your head, and focus on the words coming out of my mouth, can you do that?’ John surrenders Sherlock’s hips to slide warm, calloused hands up his back, to hook his arms under Sherlock’s in grasping Sherlock’s face in his palms. ‘Sherlock. Can you do that for me?’

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock agrees. His skin tingles, sparks, burns in the wake of John’s touch.

 

John pants into the sweat-damp skin of Sherlock’s throat, scrapes his teeth roughly over Sherlock’s sternocleidomastoid. Sherlock feels himself contract around John’s prick. Bites his lip to keep the resultant noise behind his teeth.

 

‘Good, oh, god, brilliant.’ John delves his fingers into the curls behind Sherlock’s ears, massages at Sherlock’s scalp. It’s _glorious_.

 

‘You’re far too tense, and you’re only going to make this harder on yourself.’ John kisses Sherlock’s eyebrow once, twice, three times. ‘Come on, you can do it. Let go, I’ve got you.’ John’s fingers tug as he says this, and Sherlock is defenceless to prevent the sudden bowing of his spine, the embarrassing whimper that escapes as he melts by degrees into John’s arms.

 

Fuck. _John._

 

His grip on the back of John’s head is precarious, now, so Sherlock abandons it to anchor himself with a hand clenched in the fabric of John’s shirt, at the centre of his back. John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair have his head tipped back, throat exposed (John likes his neck, never fails to stare blatantly when Sherlock has the first two buttons of his shirt undone). Sherlock swipes his fingertips over the head of his prick, almost too sensitised, and notes that it’s unequivocally weeping.

 

‘Come on. Come for me, Sherlock.’

 

John has begun to meet the rocking of Sherlock’s hips with desultory, ineffectual thrusts of his own, hampered as he is by the nervy squeeze of Sherlock’s thighs around him, by Sherlock’s not insignificant weight bearing him down.

 

‘I’m trying,’ Sherlock grits through his teeth, frustrated. He’s right _there_ , but his body won’t follow through. ‘I’m _trying_.’

 

‘Shh, it’s all right, let me help...’ John carefully withdraws his hands from Sherlock’s hair, smooths them down Sherlock’s shoulders to splay against his scapulae. Sherlock’s knuckles graze the inside of John’s elbow as he continues to strip his cock desperately. His arm is beginning to cramp painfully, and he grunts a helpless noise against John’s hairline, something between a groan and a sob, why can’t he _do this_?

 

‘Oh, love, it’s okay, I’m right here,’ John promises against Sherlock’s cheek. ‘You tried so hard, you were so good, but it’s too much, isn’t it? Let me help you—will you trust me to do that?’

 

‘Yes, all right, anything,’ Sherlock wheezes. He doesn’t have much choice; this is John’s area, not his, Sherlock will freely admit it. Anything to get them out of this room, out from under the watchful, leering eye of Magnussen.

 

John responds by trailing a hand down to Sherlock’s knee. ‘You need more leverage, that’s all.’ He coaxes Sherlock into unfolding his leg, wraps it around himself. ‘Give yourself something to push against,’ John murmurs as he adjusts his posture with a wince (“bad” leg, return of blood flow), and Sherlock hooks his ankle around John’s calf.

 

‘Perfect, exactly like that,’ John tells him. ‘Now the other one.’

 

Oh, god.

 

Warily, Sherlock settles his full weight atop the slope of John’s thighs, whilst gripping John’s shoulders for balance. Draws up his other leg, and braces this one in the same manner as the first. John sits back fully on his heels once more, locking Sherlock in place. John’s hands slide to Sherlock’s waist.

 

‘All right, good, now let go, and lower yourself onto your back—is that okay? Sherlock?’

 

Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock holds it for a count of five, before exhaling as slowly as possible. He can do this. Magnussen already set the terms for a face-to-face encounter, so Sherlock _must_ do it, if he doesn’t want the hateful man to take any retaliatory action.

 

‘It’s fine,’ he hears himself saying, as if from a distance. Removed. ‘I’m fine, I can...do that.’

 

Sherlock releases John’s shoulders and uses his abdominal muscles to cautiously lean back, back, until his own shoulders and then skull touch the floor. The lower half of his spine is stretched over the length of John’s thighs. He feels idiotic, risible (excruciatingly vulnerable), laid out like this. But not hemmed in, not pinned down, and if anyone is bodily trapped here, it’s John.

 

Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s forearms.

 

‘Okay?’ John asks again. His thumbs rub idle (not so idle?) circles on the bony blades of Sherlock’s hips. The new position opens Sherlock up, spreads his thighs that much wider. John’s prick has shifted inside him, and it’s pressing...it’s...

 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, his voice positively sepulchral.

 

John’s eyes flutter shut—crease between the brows, jaw thrust forward, throat clenching and relaxing around a swallow, or maybe a word or sound John has judged unwise at the last moment—and he nods.

 

John opens his eyes. Keeps his gaze fixed on his own hands as he tugs Sherlock flush into his lap, rolls his hips at the same time and thrusts.

 

_Oh!_

 

Sherlock’s brain short circuits as it attempts to reconcile the mortifying crudity of the act with the unprecedented pleasure of it. Because it is shocking, disconcerting, deeply unnerving, if he allows himself to think too much into it ( _Don’t_ , he reminds himself), but yes, definitely pleasurable. With John.

 

‘Move with me,’ John tells him hoarsely, as he eases from Sherlock the few inches he’s able, given the hold Sherlock maintains on his arms. ‘Let go, I’ve got you. Go ahead and try again. Touch yourself.’

 

Sherlock does as he’s told, cedes his hold on John to curl a hand around his prick. Reaches down with the other and kneeds anxiously at John’s knee as he bullies himself into following John’s direction. To and fro, using the strength of his legs, caught around John’s, to power the movement.

 

The pace John sets is leisurely, the snap of John’s hips each time he plunges into Sherlock nothing short of maddening. Sherlock throws his arm over his face and fumbles for a moment in trying to match the stroking of his cock with John’s thrusts, the careful, almost indulgent withdraw as Sherlock pushes with his heels planted firmly against the toes of John’s boots, then the far less patient lurch as Sherlock draws himself in with his knees, thighs straining, and John fully seats himself once more, at force.

 

The angle of Sherlock’s hips means the head of John’s prick regularly drags in torturous proximity to his prostate; enough to tease, but not directly stimulate (difficult to achieve in any way but manually, Sherlock’s research has assured him, and Sherlock accepts this objectively, but that doesn’t keep his physiological response from trembling on edge, desperate for that satisfaction). A deep, insatiate ache blooms between his thighs, only honed by each successive, increasingly smoothly coordinated give-and-take.

 

‘That’s it, Sherlock, _Jesus_ , shit, oh Christ,’ John hisses under his breath, his hands cinched around the span of Sherlock’s pelvis. ‘Are you close?’ he asks, breathlessly.

 

‘Close, yes,’ Sherlock huffs. He’s bordering on overstimulated, overwhelmed, not sure how much longer he can endure this.

 

Without warning, John fucks into him hard, holds himself there for a slow, filthy circling of his hips. Sherlock inhales sharply as it jolts through him like a live current, and his limbs act of their own accord, legs contracting vice-like around John, head tipping back. Sherlock grinds himself down on John’s lap as hard as he is able in an instinctive, mindless effort to prolong the sensation, none the less gluttonous for it, for having never before experienced anything quite its like.

 

(Sherlock has always been the hedonist, but never in this. Too complicated, too messy—literally and figuratively—the mere idea bringing to mind uncomfortable words like “evisceration” and “self-immolation.” Never worth it, had been Sherlock’s firm opinion, but, well... John had unexpectedly done away with a fair number of the “nevers” in Sherlock’s life.)

 

Sherlock pumps his cock ruthlessly--two, three, four times—and he chokes on a sob of pure relief as he feels himself spill over that edge, his orgasm coalescing dark and viscid and shivery, like a rising tide. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip, he grounds himself as firmly as possible in his body to let it sweep over him, exhausted and exultant.

 

‘John,’ Sherlock whinges. ‘Don’t stop, I’m...oh god, I’m...’

 

Every muscle in his body locks up, as if in seizure. Sherlock begins to come with several deep, wrenching spasms, one after the other, shaking and helpless, like a revelation. Oh, _god_ , he hadn’t...he’d known, theoretically, but he hadn’t expected... The newly intimate awareness of his own body’s internal musculature as he feels himself clamp down around John’s cock, John, thick and unyielding inside him, driving the chemical dump of...of endorphins and dopamine and oxy...oxy- _something_ to heights of intensity Sherlock wouldn’t have thought possible, _Christ_.

 

Sherlock shudders in John’s arms, fists a hand in his own hair as his spine arches up off the floor with the power of his convulsions and John continues movement where Sherlock is unable, doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop fucking up into Sherlock, fucking him through the bone-grinding tremors as he shakes and shakes and splinters to pieces. But John holds him in his arms, holds tightly (so tightly) to all the scattered pieces of Sherlock, holds them safe until, with a final devastating pulse of hot semen over his own fist, Sherlock is able to sense the boundaries of mind and body again.

 

He is gasping for breath, eyes damp, wrecked and alarmed at the strength of his own reaction, and someone is laughing as Sherlock struggles to piece himself back together, struggles because he’s having trouble remembering what edges fit where. Someone else (John, he will always recognize John, even if he himself is deaf or blind or out of his skull with neurotransmitters firing as if in response to a hit of medical-grade heroin) is swearing a blue streak under his breath—‘JesusfuckingChrist, mother of _fuck!_ ’—and pushing at him frantically, trying to dislodge him from John’s lap. Which Sherlock won’t have, he’s still riddled with cracks and needs a moment (an hour, a lifetime, an eternity) to seal them over again, so he brings both hands up to grip John’s forearms fiercely and steels his thighs around John’s hips and holds on with everything he has, even as he endeavours to come down.

 

John’s fingers dig deep, deliciously painful bruises into the muscle of Sherlock’s arse as John suddenly jerks against him, keening lowly, and Sherlock feels the way John’s prick, impossibly, becomes perceptibly thicker and harder, the way the organ twitches, throbs, then judders as John comes deeply inside him with a wrung-out curse, and one, two, three more pulses. And something in that: something in knowing that his own orgasm has compelled John to follow suit, though Sherlock is sure John _(strong moral principle)_ intended nothing of the sort, allows him to shore himself up enough to clutch John in kind, until the aftershocks have faded, and oversensitivity and John’s inevitable mortification have set in.

 

Sherlock could tell John now—what he has always wanted to say, but never has. What he hadn’t been able to say, but merely hint at, even in making his vow at John’s wedding reception, whilst so many other people were there. He could thank John for existing, in a world otherwise empty and lonely and bleak; could thank him for giving Sherlock a reason to keep breathing, simply by grace of the fact that John has been there to breathe beside him. He could thank John for giving him an After worth having, thereby allowing him to separate himself from everything colourless and disappointing and painful that became Before, upon meeting John Watson.

 

_(You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.)_

 

For a bare fraction of a moment, he considers it ( _Evisceration_ , Sherlock reminds himself, wearily), because he realises then that the pounding in his ears is in fact the thump of rotors—helicopter, is all he can wring from his brain at the moment—real and unmistakable, and nearing.

 

‘Oh ho, that was close!” Magnussen chuckles, sounding so very pleased with himself. “Quite close. I wasn’t certain you would make it there, in the end, Sherlock. And _John_.’ Magnussen tsks, and his laughter this time has a much more darkly amused edge to it.

 

John abruptly lifts his hands from Sherlock and rises to his knees so Sherlock can pull in his legs. Sherlock winces as John’s softened prick withdraws from him—‘sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,’ John babbles, a hand pressing down on Sherlock’s chest to keep him there—and John shifts with obvious discomfort before he is finally able to collapse onto his arse with an agonised grunt, straightening stiff legs, rubbing at them to encourage circulation to return.

 

Magnussen stands. ‘Quickly, quickly now, big brother has finally arrived. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting!’ Magnussen turns and strides from the room, toward the glass doors leading outside.

 

Sherlock passes a hand over his brow for a single, self-indulgent moment as he collects himself. Wills away the prickling heat behind his eyes that threatens to spill over into something truly unsightly.

 

_(Into battle.)_

 

He rolls to his feet with shaky, uncooperative limbs, hurriedly snatches up and yanks on his clothing: pants, trousers, jams his feet into his shoes. There is semen drying on his abdomen and chest, and Sherlock reaches down hesitantly with the half-formed idea of wiping it away with his hand, but realises doing so will only spread the mess. His scarf, maybe...but then that would be two items of clothing lost to the events of this afternoon, and he doesn’t—afterwards, he might not get a chance to—

 

‘Sherlock,’ John says, gaining his addled attention. John, tucked away and buttoned up proper once more, pushes himself laboriously to his feet. He approaches with his own scarf, and Sherlock watches numbly as John gently grasps his right wrist, wipes his hand and torso clean. John’s palm lingers over the scar on Sherlock’s chest, as if he would like to wipe that away, too, before he folds Sherlock’s mess to the inside of the scarf and shoves it into his jacket pocket. Jaw clenched (angry, worried), John helps him with steady hands to button the urine-soaked Dolce shirt (destined for the bin), his suit jacket and Belstaff. Finished, John’s hand hovers awkwardly over Sherlock’s lapel, hovers, but doesn’t make contact.

 

‘Are you...’ John clears his throat, finally looks up at Sherlock and catches his eye. ‘Are you all right?’

 

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock tells him, not because it’s necessarily true (Sherlock will have to wait until later to evaluate the truth of it, himself, once he is alone and has a chance to process), but because it’s what they both need to hear. If his hands shake, almost imperceptibly, as he shoves them into the pockets of his greatcoat, neither of them mention it.

 

John stares at him intently, brow creased (guilty, upset), and Sherlock recalls his promise to John.

 

‘I will be fine,’ he amends. ‘I—thank you, John.’

 

‘”Thank you?”’ John repeats, incredulously. ‘Sherlock, what I just did...don’t you fucking _thank_ me!’

 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to avoid eye contact, and he does so whilst fussing with his gloves, turning toward the glass doors.

 

‘Yes, thank you,’ he insists, speaking quickly and raising his voice preemptively against John’s undrawn breath, against the increasing whinge of rotor blades, ‘because it could have been much, much worse, and you were careful and you were, you were _patient_ with me, more than I deserved, and you did something distasteful, so Magnussen wouldn’t do something even more so. _Of course_ , thank you.’ Gloves finished with, Sherlock loops his scarf around his neck briskly.  

 

‘Just transport,’ he reminds John, or maybe himself, with the hint of a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though Sherlock’s not certain either of them really believe that, not with the unspoken tension that has existed between them since Sherlock’s return, and which has only increased since John’s marriage. That very tension which stretches between them now, made brittle and aching sweetly beneath Sherlock’s sternum in the wake of John’s touch, in the wake of John’s words whispered into his skin and John’s ejaculate slowly seeping out of his body.

 

The circumstances certainly aren’t what Sherlock would have chosen (not least of all because of that pointless _guilt_ in which John will insist indulging), but, as Mycroft had taken great pleasure in snidely informing Sherlock on several occasions during their youth, beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers.

 

Sherlock abruptly jerks his head in the direction of the patio doors. ‘We should get out there.’ Sherlock has his witnesses, and his dear John has his gun tucked thoughtlessly at the small of his back, where it will be within easy reach, out of sight until too late. Sherlock will finish this, and Appledore’s “vaults” will be destroyed.

 

John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘ _Sherlock_. You can’t possibly... We need to talk about this,’ John insists, adamant. He shoots a glare toward Magnussen, outside. ‘Not now, obviously, but this is seriously—’

 

‘Later,’ he assures John blithely, intending nothing of the sort. Once he kills Magnussen, Sherlock is aware there very well may be no “later.” Not for him, anyway, but there will be one for John, and that is what’s important. That is what the _point_ of all this has been.

 

Sherlock gently shakes John off and makes for the open door. He can feel John’s stare, John’s displeasure, burning into the centre of his back like a tangible touch but, crisis passed, their natural dynamic has been regained, and John remains silent. Sherlock steps through the doorway.

 

Magnussen peers over his shoulder with a cheerfully mocking grin, raises his voice to be heard above the roar of the helicopter.

 

‘Here we go, Mr. Holmes!’

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Years ago I read fourleggedfish’s Richie!verse fic The Subtle Art of Misdirection (http://archiveofourown.org/works/470173), which made use of the Bad Guys Made Them Do It trope to truly chilling effect, and featured a virgin Holmes who had a severe phobia of sex. It was the first time I could say that I'd seen this type of story done in a psychologically believable way which stayed true to the characters, and didn't try to trivialize or unrealistically eroticise the lack of freely given consent itself. That story stuck with me, and as I became more and more invested in the BBC Sherlock fandom and the 'tragically unspoken' element of Sherlock and John's feelings for each other, I found myself increasingly frustrated that the few times this trope made an appearance (always instigated by Moriarty, and without believable motive or leverage), they all felt Wrong. Lo and behold, eventually Magnussen came along, and the kink meme prompt I knew I had to write myself if I wanted it done "right." (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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